


Civil War : Holmes v Holmes

by Teaandcakes



Series: Beyond Ourselves [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Discussion of historic child sex abuse, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Homophobic Language, Humour, Kilts, M/M, PTSD John, Smut, Suicide Attempt, Violence, Whump, and tartan trews!, incestuous thoughts, switchlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:58:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaandcakes/pseuds/Teaandcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set six months after the end of 'The Fragile Life...', Sherlock and John are in a heady new relationship as lovers, one which is passionate, and at times, lacking control. </p><p>Mycroft Holmes once warned Sherlock that if he hurt John, he would lose him. But maybe that's not the way round it goes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study in Contrasts

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that to get the most out of this fic, it's strongly recommended to read Part1 The Life and Death... and Part2 The Fragile Life....., before reading this part. 
> 
> Some kind and lovely peeps tell me they enjoy the writing of Mycroft in these stories. In this one he's a bit more flawed and a mixed bag : He's still heroic; it's just you get to see more detail of his personality. He's still my darling.
> 
> The damage caused by past experiences John and Sherlock both have inside them, comes out in this story. Mainly their inability to control themselves under certain conditions. For John, it's his PTSD trauma. For Sherlock, it's his inability to observe agreed limits in his sexual practices.
> 
> One non triggering tag has been omitted to avoid spoilers.
> 
> There WILL be more parts to this series, since I'm now officially addicted.....:-). Updates are posted on my haffieliesel Tumblr account fairly regularly. Pop in and say hi, if you're passing.
> 
> Kudos are like motivational nectar to this little bee, and comments are my actual honey.

It was six months since Mycroft Holmes had eavesdropped on the touching exchanges between his sentimental little brother and Doctor John Hamish Watson.

Six months in which there had been some changes. And some things which had not changed at all.

Sherlock Holmes remained infuriating, aggravating, rude, antisocial and brilliant. Still tall, although not as tall as people think. His short friend is now his lover, but Sherlock still has a good coat.

John Watson remained stubborn, loyal, normally kind and polite. Still short. Still deadly if pushed too far. Unsuspected by most of their friends, it is John who is in charge in the bedroom.

........

Changes, well. Yes. There were quite a few.

The skull of Jonathan Lang, Sherlock's childhood rapist, was shut away in the cupboard. John was pretty sure Sherlock took it out and looked at it still, maybe even still talked to it. But the skull was not brought out in John's presence, and he was grateful for it.

The body parts were now in a designated 'For Science' fridge freezer. Fingers in the crisper, heads on the bottom shelf (due to an unfortunate tendency to exude matter and liquids). Eyeballs in sealed containers on the top shelf. Penises (penii?) also on the top shelf, which seemed appropriate - 'If they must, in fact, be anywhere at all?', asked John. 

In the end it had been a neatly size graded row of severed dicks, which Sherlock referred to as 'the Xylophone', rather than the severed heads, which had led to 'negotiations', and ultimately to the new segregated arrangements for food and science. 

There was milk. Most days, there was even food. 

Sherlock Holmes had been slowly transformed from a walking skeleton suitable only for Molly's morgue trolleys, into a lithe slim man, as beautiful as before, but definitely less physically fragile. This change was wrought by the love of a Good Man, and that man's patience to get food into Sherlock, in a way Sherlock could tolerate. 

Sometimes, that process involved honey in body crevices, which was inefficient nutritionally, but very helpful erotically when, like Sherlock, you had a Thing about honey and a Thing about Johns small cat tongue flicking out and retreating back. Sherlock had mentioned YouTube, there seemed to be a lot of cat themed material on there already, and would John mind? 

John did mind, it appeared. John had withdrawn sexual privileges for a whole week. Although in reality it had actually ended up only being three days, because of John's liking for alfresco trysts and a case that took them to Soho Square. Where Sherlock Holmes (esteemed Consulting Detective) ended up pressed up face first against the mock Tudor timbers of the Cabbies Hut, while John expressed his displeasure at being auditioned for a cute kitty gif by fucking him so hard from behind, he was seemingly attempting with some success, to embed splinters in Sherlocks genitalia. 

Clearly, a thrilled Sherlock concluded, Soho's past as a centre of vice was not truly dead. This cheered him greatly, once he had removed the worst of the shrapnel. He disliked the sanitisation of the seedier corners of the city. He had explored these streets for years and it was the underbelly that held his interest most. The dirty down at heel street markets, the back streets with hidden sweatshops and brothels and language schools where you didn't need to turn up to lessons, just pay the money. 

Other than John Watson's underbelly, of course. That warranted much more exploration than London's sordid charms could ever offer in a hundred shoe soles worth of tramping.

We digress. Back to food. 

Mostly, and more prosaically, food intake was achieved through careful choice of food and its intricate preparation. The fingernail rule remained, nothing in pieces bigger than Sherlocks fingernail. His fingers, (like everything else of his except his cock where the reverse applied, said John proudly), were twice the size of Johns, so it was a two fingernail rule really, since John did the vast majority of the food prep). 

............

Many things had changed, since John Watson nine months ago first listened to Mycroft Holmes' devastating resume of a hot summer long past, when William 'died' and Sherlock replaced him. But the food issue seemed to be resistant to progress. Management was what it amounted to. Management was ok. Not all things are curable. Some you live with. 

..............

There was a shared bedroom now; the one that had been Sherlock's, where they first made love below the fading and curling poster of Baritsu techniques : where John had taken Sherlock, and then Sherlock, most surprisingly to both of them, had taken John. The first hungry, then desperate and loud; the second, surprisingly; exquisitely, slow and gentle and affecting. Both of them changed by the experience of that night; and by the long moaning, sighing, gasping and screaming nights and days that followed.

The choice of Sherlock's bedroom for most of their activities, rather than John's at the top of the house, aroused the ire of Mrs Hudson, because of 'the noises, boys, the shrieks!', which meant she had to wear earplugs and have Radio 3 on Götterdämmerung level all night (and some of the day). Mrs Turner said her married ones weren't nearly so bad, and she didn't know how Mrs H tolerated it. Mrs Hudson said she thought it might moderate, in time, though she looked a little doubtful. Sherlocks enthusiasms, as she called them, tended once acquired, to be permanent obsessions.

She could no longer clean in 221B, as it was now kept locked, so she didn't see some of the reasons for the noise. She would, if she saw; but they didn't let her see; she was old and the exotic dancing was some way in the past now, and her heart wasn't what it was. 

She didn't understand why they couldn't 'take it upstairs' to Johns old room. She didn't know that the more extreme stuff, they did.....anyway she upped the rent in revenge; and didn't make as many cakes, which was a measure of her displeasure; but she did admit that Sherlock looked much healthier and happier these days, and that John seemed less cross, though they both looked worn out most of the time, which was funny as they hadn't been doing so many cases and John wasn't working at the clinic anymore....

But one good thing was, they didn't moan about the condition of the house, the upkeep of which was definitely beginning to get on top of Mrs Hudson. Noticing this, on one of his infrequent and usually disapproving visits, Mycroft arranged for some jobs to be done quietly without her knowing, just to stop the place getting too bad. He thought something might need to be done.

..............

It was probably a good thing there were no more drugs raids these days. Sherlock's bedroom was now generally a sea of scrunched up soiled bed linen, underwear, including a lot of red items from that Harrods trip, discarded sex toys and a mini fridge freezer for cold drinks and ice. Nothing out of the ordinary for London but not, perhaps, typical. 

Johns old room, by contrast, was one that would require a mind pretty well open at 180 degrees.......It hadn't taken long for Sherlock's timid written note that he 'was interested in bondage', to be translated into a fully equipped bondage den. As with all things, Sherlock took his hobbies extremely seriously and researched the subject diligently. Then he threw himself into the whole thing with abandon, demanding ever more restrictive and uncomfortable looking bondage techniques and revelling in submitting to John's commands, as a way of emptying his own mind, and for a limited time being free of his racing thoughts, able to channel and concentrate and the blissful whiteness of his brain. It was the only time, since Lang, since he was eleven, that he experienced that level of release, of forgetting. It was consequently extremely important and very precious to him. He felt really happy and really free, in those moments.

He had the resources to buy the gear, too, as Mycroft had now released some limited control over his trust fund to him.

'To buy yourself some trinkets for the flat, now that you are a happy couple? Perhaps a china shepherdess, or a novelty cuckoo clock? Lava lamp?'

Mycroft probably hadn't envisaged a mail order dungeon when allowing this, but.....who knows, perhaps that's exactly what he expected? Who knew, with Mycroft? He was probably a shadow director of the dungeon supplier company. His version of Bonds 'International Import and Export'.

John himself took a slightly mixed view of the whole trend of proceedings. The stuff he had learned about Sherlock and his past had taught John one lesson in life :-not to prejudge anything without knowing the full facts, and where appropriate experiencing the subject at issue. 

Essentially, he concluded, after a good deal of experiential learning, his view was that it was all good: he did really enjoy being the dominant one in the bedroom. To be fair, he didn't need all this extra stuff, he found Sherlock unbearably arousing pretty much all of the time anyway, irrelevant of whether he was dressed, not dressed, trussed up; or blindfolded, flogged and begging. 

But he was more than happy to indulge anything that made Sherlock happy, comfortable in his sexual persona and gave him relief from the racing brain and the pressures of being Sherlock Holmes. He could see this range of practices really did do that, for Sherlock, and that nothing else did, and John could give him that. Therefore, there was no way he would deny Sherlock, in general. To this extent, they were utterly compatible. 

The only times that John struggled to enjoy matters, was if he felt Sherlock was taking things too far, if he felt one of them was being dehumanised or could be properly physically hurt by what they were doing. Or if he felt what Sherlock was requesting was a product of his total lack of 'plain vanilla' sexual experiences prior to John. 

Those issues hadn't arisen often, but they had arisen already, and saying 'no' had provoked a deep look of betrayal in Sherlock's eyes that had taken some time to leave them. John therefore tried to limit his refusals to red line issues. Sherlock still pushed at the lines. So far, Sherlock had blinked first.

...........

But Sherlock had an additional plan for this attic room now, as well as their special fixtures. John missed the desert, he knew. The heat, the light, the sounds, living under canvas on camp beds. And time hadn't lessened that yearning. Sherlock planned a holiday somewhere suitably desert-y, when they were free from cases for an extended period, but that wouldn't be for a while. 

So Sherlock recreated the desert for John, as his present for their first Christmas together. Although, to be accurate, they weren't together for most of it. John was at his mothers house. 

Or at least, Sherlock thought he was.

..............

John had told his mother about the mysterious total lack of wife and baby, which had led to a blazing row since he hadn't been able to give her the whole crappy truth about 'Mary'. 

But he hadn't told her about Sherlock, about their relationship. Mrs Watson began to hear and read rumours about Sherlock and Johns relationship. She read things, in the paper. She saw things, online. There hadn't been any great coming out announcement but gradually the facts and a lot that wasn't factual had leached out.

John rang her. He probably should have done it earlier. 

Mrs Watson listened.

And then Mrs Watson made it absolutely clear that Sherlock Holmes would not be welcome - ever - at her family house. She asked John outright if Sherlock had 'jumped him', because ' "they" do that, you know', and said it was a good job he'd given up his job at the medical practice because 'people wouldn't want their kids being treated by him, not now'. And that she'd seen a thing on Channel 4 about a camp where they cured people of various "perversions", including apparently, homosexuality.....

John still went back at Christmas, like a dog returning to its vomit. He was going out of family loyalty, and because Harry had stayed away. He didn't want his mother to be alone, to be lonely, and thought he might be able to reason with her, and to give her another chance.

But John really should have known better. He hadn't even had the chance to answer her questions. He had barely been in the house for an hour before she took up her miserable theme and continued in a similar vein, majoring on 'no grandchildren'; 'father would be ashamed'; 'he sounds weird from what I read in the papers, the whole family do', 'probably some inbreeding there, I wouldn't wonder: they do that a lot, people like that, with more money than chins.'. 

John listened to her diatribe, his lips narrowed and clamped. His hands clenched and shook.

Then he had, without a word, gathered up his haversack, his coat and his wallet and keys, and walked out. Limping now. He hadn't limped on the way in. He did not say goodbye and did not kiss her. 

He did not intend to go back. 

......................

John finally admitted to himself as he walked back towards the rail station, that his sexual identity as a bisexual man (or perhaps Holmesexual?), now he'd found it, was not compatible with his remaining parent's prejudice, and he didn't know how to change that; didn't know if it ever could be changed. The feeling of powerlessness made him afraid and depressed, and he wanted to be at home with Sherlock. Feeling loved and wanted.

However, despite the fact it was Christmas Eve, John Watson didn't go back to 221B, his fierce pride keeping him away. Which was really quite fortuitous, as otherwise he would have discovered a half finished mock up of Camp Bastion and fourteen tons of sand in dumpy bags outside 221B. 

The neighbours at Baker Street were scouring the councils planning lists, convinced that excavations for a huge basement extension would start imminently and the hastily thrown up Georgian terraces would collapse like a lack of cards, just so that the detective fellow could have some futuristic laboratory in the ground like Doctor Evil. They suspected their neighbour of taking advantage of the festive period to undertake some dastardly plan, applying for permission only retrospectively. They found nothing except a building warrant for some structural strengthening of the attic. And resigned themselves to a state of confusion.

.................

 

John didn't go to Harry's, or Mike's, or even Greg's, either. Pride again. He was ashamed of his only living parent and he didn't fancy sharing that fact with anyone, least of all the people he was closest to.

Instead, John Watson booked into a nearby Marriott hotel at extortionate festive rates, turned off his phone and drank himself stupid, listening to the sound of other people making merry and watching back to back horror films on cable TV. 

He took long baths until the water was cold and his skin wrinkled, ate nothing except the contents of the mini bar, and cried his fucking heart out at his lot comprising a drunk sister, a dead father who hit him more than hugged him when he was alive, and a mother so viciously homophobic she would probably have preferred him to be a serial killer. 

'Merry fucking Christmas, John', he sneered at his reflection in the mirror on Christmas morning. He was already drunk. He hoped he wouldn't have nightmares about Afghanistan: the mirrors at 221B were either foil covered Perspex or not in plain sight of places John might wake up, because of the injuries he'd sustained smashing them in the throes of a bad one. 

This was not how their first Christmas was supposed to be. 

........

When John returned to 221B the day after Boxing Day, he was still hungover and still very depressed from his encounter with his mother. He was not in the mood for much talking and there was a definite trace of a limp as he alighted from the train.

Sherlock, who was exhausted from his frantic and rather sandy preparations, met him at the station, glancing at his condition, embracing him hard, with a passionate kiss that attracted quite a bit of attention (but of a nice smiling kind, as folk were in festive moods), and they hailed a cab. Or rather, Sherlock did, because he had the Cab Summoning Power. 

Sherlock had, of course, noticed the haggard appearance and smelt the stale alcohol immediately. He said nothing, but knew John had clearly been somewhere other than his mothers house for much of his time away. The thin and crinkly Marriott stamped paper tissue sticking out of his army haversack told him the rest. He wasn't overly surprised. Sherlock knew that he and the fragrant and delightful Mrs Watson were cruising towards an overdue, and probably pithy conversation; and he really rather relished the prospect. But he loathed her for upsetting John so much, at Christmas, and without reason, and for making his eyes reddened and sad.

On reaching 221B, they walked slowly upstairs and into the flat. Mrs Hudson was away at her sisters. Just them here. This was their Christmas now. 

Sherlock affected to hate the festival, and of course it had no religious significance for him; his religion was science and rationalism. John was less fixed in his beliefs, but whether or not there was a God (he wasn't sure he knew, and wasn't sure he was even too bothered), he loved everything about Christmas. He had won the argument on decorating the flat so there was a tree, and tinsel, and even fairy lights. Sherlock glared at them when alone, but smiled at John as John smiled at them. So they stayed. And Sherlock did even deign to play Christmas music on his violin. Because that made John smile too.

They had agreed they would exchange presents when John was back. 

John made tea, and they sat closely on the sofa, now comfortable with their legs pressing together and shoulders touching. It was funny, in a way, that this sort of casual everyday intimacy had taken far longer than the sex. 

John might have said that was because these small gestures were more likely to happen in a public setting where others might see : but then he thought of occasions like Soho Square, where to his knowledge they had been seen by at least four cabbies, two of the homeless network, a Community Support police officer; and a street cleaner who carefully swept his bristly brushes right around their feet just as John reached his noisy and enthusiastic climax and Sherlock squealed (because of another splinter)........

John brought a small rectangular package out of his bag, 

'Me first. I thought you would like this. Happy Christmas, Sherlock.'

He handed it over. 

Sherlock slowly opened the package. Inside was a very small gift wrapped box. He hoped it wasn't cuff links. He didn't think about the possibility of a ring. Sherlock didn't seem to be aware of the relevance of such bureaucracy. He opened the box. A key was the only content. The key ring was a blue enamelled flat metal hexagon.

He looked quizzically at John. 

'Key?'

'Yep. Beehives, 

Not here, obviously. At Barts. They agreed to have some beehives for you to tend. There's a sort of false parapet roof one or two floors up at one side of the building. Theres three hives up there. 

Apparently urban areas are good for honey bees because there's more variety of plants in domestic gardens than in farm fields. It's quite a trend now and I thought it would help replace the 'roof as platform for faking suicide' with 'roof as bee garden'. Not the same roof, obviously. That would be too high. And anyway, I want to see these bees, and I'm not going up to that other fucking roof. 

The key is for the door from the stairwell to the bee roof. Oh, and there's a package in our bedroom, that's the bee suit, smoker etc, some centrifugal thing. Some jars. Stuff. The bee people were very helpful. The bees are coming from Mill Hill, I think. They've been checked for all the known problems, varroa etc. Just have to hope regarding colony collapse but you'll know more about that than me.'

Sherlock was staring at John, overwhelmed. 

'Bees. Beehives. In London. Oh John......'

And he kissed the stale alcohol smelling John passionately on the lips and the face and even his ears, and groped his arse shamelessly. John felt the familiar warmth spread through him. But there was still his present to open. 

'Now it's my turn', Sherlock reluctantly pulled away and smiled that smile he knew could not be resisted. 

'Come with me. I've been busy. With some help.'

He led a puzzled John slowly upstairs. John was intrigued. Normally they only came up here in the throes of an....encounter, unspoken glances indicating that this time would be 'upstairs' and not 'downstairs'. Upstairs was the private, the quiet, the secret place. The darkest warmest deepest place. 

The fixtures and equipment of that place had not been disturbed, although on entering the room John could see that workmen must have seen much of it, as this was too much work for Sherlock to have completed himself in the time. He would perhaps get annoyed about that later, as they had agreed no one would see this....chamber - it was another room kept locked when Mrs Hudson was around. In fact, this room had two locks.

For now, John was transfixed.

The bulky equipment was still ranged around the walls. But the room was large, taking up the whole attic space of 221, and while the roof came down fairly low, restricting head height in some places, it was still a big, big space. Which is how it was that the whole centre of the room was now transformed into the closest approximation of the desert that it's possible to make in an attic in central London.

A raised kerb made a large square in the centre of the room, containing the six inches of sand, actual real sand, that made up the surface underfoot. Heaters blasted the room with sweltering dry heat. The heaters had remote controls, and Sherlock showed John an app on his phone that could be used to switch them on and off automatically or on a timer.

The tent was army surplus desert issue, as was the camp bed and kit inside it. Down to the last detail, it was a replica of Johns army accommodation in Helmand province. There was even a recording of the nighttime sounds of a military base in the desert. Sherlock had been in touch with a veterans association John donated to, and they had helped him secure the recording, along with advising on authentic details for equipping the room. 

They told Sherlock to his astonishment that this was the fourth similar project they had helped with. He had no idea. It made him feel sad and comforted simultaneously. He sent them a large cheque afterwards. For desert therapy.

John sat down hurriedly on the camp bed. The heat and the sight overwhelmed him and made him feel faint but also overwhelmed with joy. He breathed steadily to regulate himself. 

Sherlock crouched down beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

'John. Do you like it?'

John turned to him with tears in his eyes and kissed him hard on the lips. 

'I love it. Fucking love it. I can't believe you've done this. Can we sleep here sometimes?'

'Of course. Maybe it can be our reward after Upstairs?'

John couldn't think of anything nicer.

....................

Sherlock didn't tell John that the whole floor had had to be replaced, and structural steel girders installed to take the weight of the tons of sand. Nor that it has ended up costing over ten thousand pounds because of that. 

Nor even, that he'd actually bought the freehold of the Baker Street property, as he couldn't have done this sort of structural work as just a flat renter. Mrs Hudsons flat was now subject to a secure tenancy for life for her, and she was now a rich woman. Her worries about the upkeep were gone. 

Mycroft, while not party to the desert plan (which he knew about anyway, he didn't need to be TOLD), was extremely happy to support the idea; even though it involved the trustees of the Holmes family trust having to give their agreement, as it was way beyond the scope of the limited element of the funds Sherlock had been trusted with. That part was enough for desert sand and bondage gear, not for four stories of a Georgian property in London NW1. 

Anyway, in Sherlock's mind, that was all mere detail. John needs the desert. Therefore I buy a house and install a desert. John is happy. Nothing else matters than John being happy. Christmas is made.

That night was their first night spent in the desert. It was memorable, and very, very sweaty. Ten grand very well spent, Sherlock thought, as he picked endless grains of sand out of his arse and stretched luxuriantly as John rubbed soothing cream gently into the angry weals on the back of Sherlock's bruised thighs.

...........

Ironically given the roaring success (not) of John's visit to his mother, they had decided to agree to spend New Year with the Holmes family.

Normally reluctant to see, or even communicate with, his parents, Sherlock, this year, wanted to positively parade John in front of them. Show him off. Show them that their hopeless decaying addicted son now had a John Watson. John Hamish Watson. Doctor Watson. Captain John Watson (retired). John.....

He practiced his introductions in front of the mirror (removed from the front of the wardrobe, you had to open the door to make use of it. Safer, for John). Unfortunately, rolling John's name over his tongue as he stood in front of the mirror gave him a raging hard on, so he left off after a bit, shut the wardrobe and retired to the bathroom where he could indulge in some John time in peace.

.................

Obviously, there was no chance of Sherlock going anywhere near Holmes Manor, because of that terrible summer, so instead Mycroft had secured a house near Aberdeen in Scotland, belonging to a Holmes family friend while they were off skiing in Canada, as Hogmanay was so much more enthusiastically and stylishly celebrated North of the Border. 

John didn't understand quite why Sherlock was so taken with the plan?

It was only when he was bundled into a cab later that afternoon, that he realised one reason. 

'Kilts? You're not serious? Me in a skirt?'

'Of course I'm serious, John. Both families have Scottish ancestry. I've researched the tartan. Anyway, you will look very dashing in a kilt. I can't wait to see you in it. And out of it.'

'What about you?'

'Ah, no need, I already have my tartan. It's all about you today. Fittings for your kilt.'

Looking back, John should have noticed the careful choice of words. He didn't say he had a kilt, but that he had 'tartan'. He only realised that later....

The kilt, John had to admit, did rather suit him. His sandy hair and stocky physique were far more suited to the traditional highland garb than someone of Sherlocks physique. Unlike when they wore black tie, he looked forward to, for once, competing on a relatively even sartorial playing field. He hadn't let Sherlock see him in it, nor divulged whether he was following tradition by not wearing underpants beneath the kilt.

It was only when packing for the Scottish trip that John realised Sherlock had been more than economical with the actuality. 

'Sherlock, what the fuck are these tartan trousers doing in your luggage? They're hideous. Where's your kilt?'

Sherlock looked a little offended, but more guilty.

'Ah yes. No, John. The Holmes family never wear kilts so it wouldn't be correct. Holmes's have always worn trews. Since time began. Trews, John.'

John looked closely at the offending items. 

'Well they look like fucking golf trousers. Why do they anyway? Wear these things and not kilts?'

'It's a family tradition. The Holmes family descends from a Lowland clan in Berwickshire, in the Scottish Borders. Many families there retained the trews and not the kilt because they saw the kilt as a Highland identifier, although actually there are many Highland families that wear them too. Especially in winter. Especially if wearing the kilt in the correct manner, John......'. He licked his lips. 

John scowled. 

'You've tricked me into this, you complete cock. You never change. You know, I bet the Holmes's have always been lanky bastards, probably getting all the good food by stealing it from peasants like my lot. And taking their comely women? And I bet they just thought, trews will suit us better, show off our well nourished and thoroughbred limbs. 

Now you're going to be warm and comfortable and I'm going to feel hideously exposed.'

'Mmm', murmured Sherlock absently. 'I intend to make sure of it. You will need someone to make sure you don't get frostbite in exposed locations.....I can keep you warm with my hands. Make sure that rough fabric doesn't chafe. Cup your manly jewels in my hands....I on the other hand, won't have that problem John. My skin is very sensitive to harsh fabrics, especially scratchy wool. I've had these made.' 

With that, he brandished aloft an extraordinary pair of pure silk undertrousers. It was all getting very theatrical and Regency and verging on the pantalooned, and John felt he would benefit from taking the air before he had an attack of 'the vapours' like a Jane Austen heroine.

He felt very cross now. Sherlock not only got away without wearing a fucking woollen skirt, he also had silk undies for his stupid loud trousers. He was going to be sorry...really sorry.

It took them longer to pack than it should, in the end. The row about the offending bloody Trews went on and on for hours. Sherlock had the last word in the end. When did he ever not? He pointed out that the region they were visiting, in the north east of Scotland, was split between Trew wearers and Kilt wearers. Therefore they were simply reflecting local custom. 'It is only respectful, John.' 

John gave up and took out his rage on Sherlocks sock index instead. And he 'might' have hung up a fluffy mohair jumper his mother had once misguidedly sent to him which she'd meant to send Harry, next to Sherlock's navy blue suit. The jumper was pale yellow. Fibre transference revenge plan was On.

 

Notes: Music has inspired me writing this chapter of the fic. Esp John and his visit to his mother.  
The song is "Smalltown Boy" by Bronski Beat.  
Retro gay pop with very moving lyrics


	2. Arrival at the Holmes's

They chose to take the sleeper train up to Aberdeen, collecting a hire car near the station at the other end. John had only been on one sleeper train before; when he was very small and the Watsons had gone on a disastrous holiday to Cornwall. He remembered being scared of the noise and jolting, and the smell of diesel. When they were there, he was scared too, this time of his fathers drinking and the blazing rows and the punches and his mothers bruised face and arms and the jellyfish sting that Harry weed on.

This time it was different. The train fleet was clearly overdue for an upgrade, it was true, and the two tiny bunk beds were fantastically uncomfortable; but John was fascinated by them, and also by the counter top that lifted up to reveal a sink, and various other gadgets. As John moved around the miniscule compartment, humming happily; Sherlock,who had taken the top bunk due to the extra head height it afforded, gazed down and realised something John himself had not realised. 

John, his John, was clearly a caravan lover. 

All the clues were there. The love of things that folded away, hidden equipment. The tidy, organised mind. The practice in living in confined spaces with limited equipment. The excitement of travelling somewhere new. 

One day, Sherlock thought. One day, not now but one day, we will have one. But something stylish, obviously. Maybe an old gypsy living wagon, traditionally decorated. Or an Airstream, all pastel and bubblegum colours. Or even a VW campervan. Whatever he wants. 

He wondered if they should have two, a touring campervan and a caravan that stayed at home all year round, near the beehives, when he gave up London and the cases. John could make tea and mow the lawn and moan about everything, and Sherlock could smile behind his bee veil and tend to the bees and tell them all the news. Very important to tell the bees your news.

John can choose the van, he thought, and I can buy it for him. And then he will smile, and a tiny bit of tongue will poke out between his teeth when he makes tea on the tiny stove, and folds out the little counter to put the plate of biscuits on. (The tongue teeth thing was the very favourite thing that John did, in Sherlocks mind: - well, apart from John fucking him so hard into the mattress that he forgot his name was Sherlock, of course).

Sherlock realised with a start that he had never ever before thought for a second about a long term, of living a normal lifespan, of even the idea of wanting that. He shook his head momentarily, as if to clear it. 

.......

The train left Euston at 9pm and would take the whole night to get there, splitting at Edinburgh in the middle of the night for half the train to break off for a more westerly final leg. No good getting in the wrong carriage on this train if you didn't want a surprise when you looked out in the morning. According to the guard, more than one passenger having a tryst in another cabin had found themselves several hundred miles away from their original cabin, and their clothes, and sometimes their unknowing spouse, after the train divided in the early hours.

They dutifully ate haggis and neeps and tatties, to get into the spirit of things, though they tasted more of salt than anything else, and drank whisky in the dining car before retiring to the spartan comforts of the cabin. The steward would wake them at seven, shortly before the train got into Aberdeen. A few snacks were provided, but the Holmes house was less than an hour away, so they would breakfast properly on arrival. Mummy Holmes knew how to lay on a good spread. 

They didn't make love that night. The jolting of the train and the precarious narrowness of the narrow fold-down beds, coupled with the lack of headroom, made the prospect less than appealing. John knew Sherlock intended to make up for it later, though. He hoped the house was sufficiently large and his hosts sufficiently broadminded, to avoid blushes at the breakfast table and pointed barbed remarks over the kedgeree from Mycroft.

The snow started to fall shortly after the train left Preston. John, replete with whisky and food, stared out at the landscape rushing past and the snowflakes hitting the window in the darkness. It was magical.

He turned to Sherlock, who was intently reading a thick dusty looking volume on the Pictish engraved stones of Aberdeenshire and Moray by the small reading light in his bunk. The Romans hadn't got up that far, John knew. Just the Bronze Age for like forever, and then the mysterious Picts, before Scotland proper emerged.

He interrupted Sherlocks scrutiny of the illustrations of intertwining heraldic fantastical beasts. He quite fancied Sherlock as one of those, maybe a dragon or serpent or something?

'We haven't really talked at all about how this is going to play out. With your parents I mean. I've never met them in the context of, well......you know.....us. Only as a house guest last Christmas with my.....then wife. So, well, hmmm, I know how my mother reacted to the idea of us. I no longer have any contact with her, that's how fucking well it went? How will your mother react? And your father? 

Sherlock smiled at him. A soft, beautiful smile. Inside he was thinking, "Mrs Watson, you are not going to know what hit you when I pull up outside your house, dear Lady'. 

Outwardly, showing nothing except looking tenderly at John. He slowly closed his book, and then started to speak softly, in that monotonal voice John had heard from both Sherlock and Mycroft only once each, and both times when they spoke of That Summer.

'Imagine you were my parents, John, and you had a son, one who wasn't like other children. Not popular, not sociable. Unhappy and troubled. Even before - it. 

Then imagine that son was targeted (he hesitated at this point, then took a shallow breath and continued) - by a - a paedophile - a rapist.'

Silence for a long moment. Sherlock stared down at a grainy black and white drawing of a Pictish fish carving, all intricate scales, round black eyes and gasping mouth. Gasping for breath.

Suddenly he spoke again. Quietly, still.

'Then, when that was over, they, the son, they cut themselves, starved themselves. They almost died. 

Then they turned to drugs, hard drugs. Used sex to pay for them. They almost died again, quite a few times. And not by accident. They meant it. They never had a relationship. They never had a friend. They wanted to die. 

Then imagine that son gets off the drugs. Finds something he's good at, solving crimes. Cold cases. That he then gains a friend, a true and loyal friend; a friend who would kill for him. One who didn't judge him.

That this friendship then turns to love. Your son looks healthy and happy. He is cared for. He is thriving.'

Sherlocks voice became Sherlock again.

'Do you really suppose, therefore John, that my parents are going to give a flying fuck that I'm taking it up the arse from you? Excuse my French.

Added to which, their intelligence and frankly comfortable social and financial position means that they don't need to impress others with displays of craven conventionality. 

The only regret that they probably have is that neither I nor Mycroft have produced any offspring to continue the family name. 

But they would undoubtedly prefer a living gay son to a dead straight one.

No, John; I predict you will find a very different welcome from the Holmes clan.' 

John nodded and smiled and climbed up the bunk ladder and hugged him. He didn't need to say anything.

.............

Sherlock knew he was on dangerous ground mentioning children. The discovery of Rebecca's paternity by the dead Moriarty using frozen sperm, and John's subsequent decision to leave Mary, had left John sensitive about any mention of children in almost any context. 

It was one of the main reasons he had left the clinic, actually left his job which he loved. He had struggled since Rebecca, to cope with the emotional demands of treating tiny children, without his hands shaking and his throat swelling and eyes filling up to the point where he felt he was no longer functionally capable in general practice, as snotty kids comprised a lot of the work. 

The Taliban had taken away his surgery career and his army career; and now Mary had taken away his dream of a child and his civilian career. He knew that he might cope better in time, but for now he had voluntarily quit before anyone else suggested he might. He had his pride, at least.

Sherlock too was uncomfortable, since he felt guilty at being so secretly pleased to have John at his side all the time. 

But there was a bigger issue for Sherlock. He had that tiny voice inside whispering at him, saying that John only left Mary, only considered him, once a truth so awful was known, that he had no choice left but to leave. Sherlock as second best, a best of what was left.

At some point they were going to need to work through this issue. Especially as realistically, a lifetime relationship between them was likely to mean a life without children. 

For Sherlock, that presented few issues. He found children mysterious, especially small ones. He generally just talked at them as if they were adults. They didn't seem to mind. In truth, they were like a less articulate version of himself, and they scared him more than he scared them.

John was different. John had wanted to be a father, had warmly welcomed it, only to have it snatched away without warning in the cruellest way possible. Sherlock wondered if this gap in Johns life, rather than any dimming of his love for Sherlock, might eventually pull John away from him, towards a woman who could give him what he never could? John hadn't gone back to see Ella, his therapist. Sherlock thought it would probably be good if he did, but could not even raise the topic. It was way too raw. This was their elephant in the room now, a great big fucking bull elephant.

It ate away at Sherlock, actually, that thought: that he, Sherlock, was a default choice, rather than a positive one for John. Sometimes. When it did, those were the nights he demanded the ropes be tighter, the blindfold blacker, the cane crueller and thinner, the sex rougher. Make me forget; and make you, John, acknowledge that this is different, this is your choice, this is real. This is not who you are with women. This is not the same and you, you are choosing this. Here. Now. 

It was also, if he was honest, part of the reason he liked to occasionally top, and fuck John. It wasn't his natural scene, but he found huge sexual satisfaction and release when he did indulge, purely because John absolutely couldn't then see Sherlock as a quasi woman, like Sherlock worried he might when it was always John's dick in Sherlock. Worried that he might close his eyes and think of a She. Especially as Sherlock was aware that his looks tended towards beauty more than ruggedly handsome, and his physique was slim with a plush bottom, rather than rugby-player type with solid muscle.

Not that there was ever an indication that John felt that way. It was Sherlocks issue, he knew. But he was flawed, and he couldn't avoid the utter sense of victory, each time he pounded into John, making him shout and come untouched, Sherlock flooding Johns very core with his seed, his own DNA. 'I'm fucking you now. No woman could go there, do that. Reminding you, John. Reminding...you. Don't you forget it.'

It didn't stop the dark thoughts.

But today was not the day for that cloud to rain on him, he decided. He put the dark thoughts aside. Back into the basement of his Mind Palace. Behind the locked barred door.

............

They were not far from Aberdeen now and the railway line was close to the coast, to the cliffs and the dark blue grey sea. The sky was lightening and they could see some oil and gas rigs, far out at sea, and the oystercatchers and gulls swooping. It was harsh and jagged and stunning. Not as many midges as the West Coast, even in summer, apparently, which was a blessing.

As the train came into Aberdeen station, the steward brought them some random bits of peculiar soggy things in plastic, which along with coffee apparently consituted breakfast. He commented cheerily that the 'sna was gettin affa deep oot there', which took John a minute to decipher, and then left them to dress. 

John had packed one set of his Derek Rose satin pyjamas, the ones Sherlock had bought him on That Day, but was wearing the other pair, in alternate dark green, mint green and navy stripes. They were super warm and really smart. He didn't really fancy getting changed at all, but did; he and Sherlock taking turns since the floor space was really only adequate for one body at a time. Sherlock was still in his customary uniform of Belstaff and suit, but the suit and shirt were all black. John thought he looked amazing, if a bit tired.

They felt bleary eyed and less than fully rested when they left the train, wandering across the large empty concourse of the station, but things looked up when they collected the hire car. Sherlock had been warned about the weather forecast by Mycroft, who was apparently already with their parents, and so he had plumped for the full works, a Range Rover with snow tyres. John wondered how much renting one of these things cost. He asked Sherlock, who shrugged casually in the way only the truly privileged ever can. 

Sherlock, who knew the way, drove them out of the city and into the countryside. He was, John thought, quieter than normal. He wasn't aware of Sherlock having visited his parents since last Christmas, and that festive season had been possibly more than slightly marred by Sherlock drugging everyone, committing murder and being sent, albeit briefly, on a suicidal espionage mission.....

.............

Tassimar House was about forty minutes from Aberdeen. As they approached, the roads, already all single track, became smaller and smaller. John wondered if they would just end up in a field, but at length, they saw a sign for the house and pulled off down a long rough stone drive, about a mile long, lined by beech trees and rhododendrons. All covered in snow now, of course, but John thought they must look amazing when in flower. And who has a drive a mile long? He asked Sherlock, who shrugged in that privileged way again; and said about these parts, quite a few people?

They had come in the private house entrance. The original stately pile a mile distant, was now run by the National Trust for Scotland, and had the original estate entrance with the large wrought iron gates and the gatekeepers lodge. 

However, when the estate was handed over, the family no longer able to meet the death duty taxes, they had retained the farming estate and most of the land. There was about nine thousand acres in all, although that was less impressive than it sounded: up here the summers were short and the land variable in quality. The estate included the retention of the huge walled garden of the big house, about a mile away from it. It was here that the family had built their new family house, actually slotted into the twelve foot high granite walls of the walled garden. The old gardeners stores provided boot rooms and gun rooms, and a neo classical designed house was built in the centre of the north wall. 

John gasped as it came into view. This wasn't even the original 'big' house. And yet there was just so much space everywhere, outside. The house, John had never seen anything like it. Elegant, modern, light and bright. Another world, he concluded. The rich really are different.

As they pulled up outside, parking next to the three other cars already here, the large double front doors opened, revealing a bright glass-roofed orangery cum hallway. John got out slightly stiffly after the long journey and that session in the desert. Sherlock slouched out of the drivers seat and peeled off his snow sunglasses. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen but Mr and Mrs Holmes stood there, waiting to welcome them.

'Here we go', thought John.

Sherlock gently brought John forward with his hand under Johns elbow. He leaned forward and politely kissed his mothers cheek, then his fathers. They didn't demand anything more but looked utterly thrilled at the physical state of their son. It was written all over their creased, smiling faces and Sherlocks mother put her hand to her mouth.

John thought about his last meeting with his own mother, and bit his lip, hard.

Then Sherlock beckoned John forward. Violet Holmes took him gently by the shoulders. Then she grasped his face in her hands, cupping it, and kissed him noisily on each cheek in turn. 

'You, young man. John. You are welcome in this house, and in this family. 

I hope you and Sherlock stay together, but even if you don't, what you have already done for my son, means you are a Holmes now to us, and always will be. Always.'

John saw that her bright sparkling eyes were filled with tears. He cleared his throat.

Sherlocks father came forward. He didn't hug Sherlock, either, John noticed, but instead clasped his hand and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. Sherlock nodded at him and his father nodded back in reply. There was fondness and respect there, but also deep sorrow and regret, John thought. 

He felt Sherlocks trials might have affected his father most of all. Not sharing the brilliance of his wife, he had fewer outlets for distraction. John felt some affinity with the quiet, proud tall figure who stooped slightly.

Then Sherlocks father turned to John.

'I expect you could both do with some breakfast. There's far too much food so we are expecting you to do your duty. Troughs at the ready. You are welcome here as our guest.'

Johns eyes were a little damp but he thought that might have been a snowflake stinging them. Or two snowflakes. Must have been?

Following the Holmes seniors into the house, Violet whispered theatrically to Sherlock, so that John could hear perfectly well, 'I've put you two boys in the yellow room. It's in the East wing, left at the top of the main stairs. Caitlin the housekeeper has put everything ready but tell her if there's anything you're short of. 

It's the furthest from anywhere else in the house. There's an en-suite and a dressing room. And there's an extra door in the corridor that locks off the wing. Daddy and I aren't worried, our hearing isn't what it was, but Mycroft could be a bit of a sneaky snooper in his younger days, and so I've put him in the Blue room at the opposite end of the house. 

He's up there now, in some never-ending conference call with some man in China. He looked frighteningly irritated when I took him a cup of tea half an hour ago. I do hope his mood improves or we'll literally never hear the end. And Caitlin won't stand for rudeness, and then there will be no scones.

John squirmed a bit to hear their sex life being referred to, even obliquely, in this way, but did like the sound of a wing of the house that would be theirs to enjoy without fear of interruption. He smiled at the thought of snoopy Mycroft. In training even at an early age. What a pity that his nosiness hadn't been available that summer when Sherlock needed it most?

The snow was getting heavier, already four or five inches, and they had been told they could stay a couple of days or longer, up to a week before they were all due to leave. John was looking forward to this, especially when he smelt the aroma from the dining room. Breakfast was served and he was ravenous with hunger. 

 

\-------------------------

Notes 

This is John Watson's tartan for his kilt!  
http://www.heritageofscotland.com/tartan/Watson-Modern/id,9919,tartan.php

This is Sherlock Holmes tartan for his trews!  
http://www.heritageofscotland.com/tartan/Holmes-Modern/id,10364,tartan.php

These are trews! But in a different tartan, but just to give you an idea  
http://www.scotweb.co.uk/products/classic-prince-charlie-trews-outfit

 

Music for this chapter, and especially Sherlock talking quietly about his childhood

Japan - Ghosts


	3. In which some winter sports are enjoyed. Indoors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut alert!

Breakfast went as expected. Mycroft did not appear, although there was evidence that he had eaten, and footprints in the snow suggesting he had been out. Sherlock's parents bustled in and out, his father remarking on the weather and the chances of yet more snow, and his mother pointing out that there were wellingtons and wet weather togs in the boot room, if they fancied a snowy walk this afternoon after they had rested?

Then they were left to it. John gazed at the array of plates and tureens, all laden with bacon, sausages, tomatoes, beans, scrambled egg and toast. He piled his plate up, and began to scoff, army mess style, shovelling. Sherlock consented to take a sausage and a spoon of scrambled egg, plus half a slice of toast. By the time he had cut it up into the required inch squares, or teaspoonfuls in the case of the egg, it was all stone cold, but he seemed to think it a price worth paying. 

When they had finished breakfast, and an appropriate gallonage of coffee was sloshing around inside them, they headed upstairs. Their cases had disappeared, clearly taken up already, and as they padded along the long landing corridor, John felt a deep sense of relaxation coming over him. The place was utterly quiet and peaceful. 

The Yellow room was beautiful. A velvet soft biscuit coloured Wilton carpet, and shining mahogany antique furniture set off the yellow and cream silk wallpaper perfectly. It felt warm and bright. The bed was huge, also mahogany, with barley twist posts at each corner. John gave those an experimental tug. Very solid. Could be useful. He hadn't brought much gear with him but he did have some cuffs and some rope.

The bathroom off the bedroom, was surprisingly high tech and modern, and must have been recently refitted. It contained both a walk in shower, and a bath. There was a small dressing room between the bedroom and bathroom, with fitted wardrobes either side of the bathroom corridor. John unpacked their clothes, including the contentious trews and kilt and all their accompanying paraphernalia. Sherlock stared out of the window.

The views out from the bedroom looked over the walled garden, so they must be at the rear of the house. The walled garden was arranged in two sets of two long rectangles with paths bisecting them, meeting at a circular gravel area with a central fountain. At the end of the garden was a huge wrought iron gate set into the wall, which led to a hard tennis court. Closer to the house was a large raised terrace, with steps leading down to the garden. John could see that along the garden walls were all sorts of fruit trees, pears, apples and plums just being the ones that he could recognise. There were strawberry beds, raspberry canes and fruit bushes of all kinds. It was like the Garden of Eden. 

Sherlock, for all his Lady Deadlock gazing out of windows, didn't seem especially interested in the garden, other that wondering if there were any poisonous plants in it. John muttered that he sincerely hoped not. He didn't fancy some Agatha Christie murder mystery popping up. 

They were tired, and quickly shed their travelling clothes down to their pants. Sherlocks parents had made it clear they didn't expect to see them until a late lunch about two. 

John turned to Sherlock. Eyeing his lean and minimally clad body, still bearing the bruises and weals of the night in the Desert camp.

'You too tired?'

Sherlock did look weary, but he looked more willing than weary. He never yet been 'too tired' where John was concerned, though he appreciated the courtesy question. 

Really, John only had to speak to Sherlock in that low firm voice and Sherlock was lost to arousal.

'Never, ever, too tired, John.' 

They lay down together on the satin quilt cover, and drank in the quiet, the only sounds being a circling buzzard mewing and the hoodie crows cawing in the trees surrounding the garden. 

John trailed his fingers down Sherlock's slim torso. Then wrapped his fingers around his own dog tags around Sherlocks neck. He leaned forward, tugging on the tags to bring Sherlock's face alongside his own, and whispered in his ear. 

'Take off your pants. Touch yourself. I want to watch.'

Sherlock blinked. This was not something John had instructed before. Not in six months. But he was very happy to do what John wanted. Following orders was, in the Woman's terminology 'what he liked'. He'd never wanted to sleep with Irene but she had certainly opened his eyes to where his interests lay.

He obediently kneeled on the bed, eyes cast downwards, hands down by his sides, and awaited further instructions. John propped himself up on his side next to him, then pulled off Sherlock's underpants and his long slender cock sprang free. Sherlock began to stroke himself. Long languorous strokes. He liked John watching. As long as this wasn't the whole meal; he liked it as an appetiser. Some gay couples didn't ever do anal he knew. He and John weren't one of those couples: kind of the extreme other end of the scale, balancing things out, maybe ; besides, Sherlock was making up for lost time.....

'Put your fingers in my mouth.'

John was watching Sherlock, his tongue caught between his teeth just slightly. That thing, with the tongue. Sherlock swallowed hard.

Sherlock obliged, still stroking himself with his left hand, still watching Johns tongue avidly, but bringing his long fingers of his right hand to Johns mouth and watching fixedly as John suckled and licked them until they were glistening and wet. A snails trail of saliva rang down his index finger. Sherlock licked it and halted its shining progress. He was breathing harder now.

'Use them. I want to see you fuck yourself on your own fingers. And then. Then, Sherlock Holmes, I'm going to fuck you.'

Johns voice sounded strained already. He wasn't used to sitting out and watching. But this time, it seemed right. Anyway, he wouldn't be just watching for long....

Sherlock slowly brought his right hand back. He was breathing heavily already from the pleasure his other hand was bringing, made sweeter by the fact John was watching and the anticipation of John promising him more.

John stared, fascinated, as Sherlock slowly plunged one finger deep into himself. Soon, he added a second, twisting and hooking. His breathing became more erratic. A third followed and soon, he was a writhing mess of pale limbs.

John could wait no longer, his erection having gone from enjoyably hard to painfully so. 

'Enough' 

Sherlock removed his fingers with a slight whimper. John sheathed his cock with a condom, slicked up with lube more quickly than Sherlock would have thought possible, and moved so that he was half sitting half lying, his back propped up by the pillows. 

He beckoned Sherlock and told him to get in his lap. Sherlock knew what that meant. He knelt either side of Johns thighs, and in one swift exquisite move he sank himself straight down onto Johns erect cock, impaling himself completely. No gradual increments. Just taking it all. Groaning as he did so and gritting his teeth. Ok. That was probably too much. 

'You ok? you're supposed to do that a bit at a time, you know?'

John was impressively endowed, and he tried to make sure Sherlock's enthusiasm didn't get him into trouble. He had a tendency to rush things. Like now.

'Mmphhhh.' 

Sherlock didn't seem capable of speech at all initially and it took him well over a minute to be able to articulate words. Neither of them moved a muscle, it was too much, too quickly.

Once he could speak, a little, Sherlock groaned out some words.

'Wanted you - wanted - this cock. Couldn't have, last night. S'not right. We're flying back not train. You can fuck me in the plane toilet.'

'Thank you for that offer. Though I don't think that'll actually work with the limited space and your height. You can wank me off, instead, quickly. We won't lock the door. Someone might come in, you'll have to be quick. We'll be in and out, like the special forces.............Ok, forget about the plane, be with me now, Sherlock. Just be careful now. Move when you can. Feels so good. My good lad. So sweet, so good, oh so...'

John was concentrating hard. 

Sherlock began to move. He gradually increased the speed he moved up and down. There was some rotation too, which sent spikes of sharp sensation through them both. 

Quickly speeding up, Sherlock's face was sweating and his dark curls were messy. He started to resemble a rodeo rider, and John also started to move, matching but not quite Sherlock's movements, so that they thumped together in a one two at the top of Johns thrust and the deepest dirtiest reach of Sherlock's action. 

The sweat and lube between them made a sweet squelching sound and Sherlock was now being bucked into the air by Johns violent reactions. Guttural noises that became louder and louder.

The final trigger was when Sherlock, still impaling himself on Johns increasingly frantic thrusts, and now also working himself with one hand, took his other hand and reaching behind him, worked it under Johns backside and jammed a finger without warning straight up into Johns hole. 

John was completely taken unprepared, and bucked up uncontrollably, and twitched and twisted and came instantly, gasping and pumping upwards into Sherlock over and over again, the come lubricating his cock like silk on his skin. He saw stars and closed his eyes as the sensation washed over him. He would never get tired of this, of seeing himself screwing Sherlock; making him beg, scream and groan. His beautiful, beautiful, sordid, wonderful Phoenix.

As he finished coming he felt a tightening around his sensitive cock and Sherlock came all over himself with a plaintive loud whimper and whine of 'JOHN', ribbons of semen shooting over his stomach. John was gripped like a vice inside and the sensation was gloriously painful in his post climax sensitivity. 

Once Sherlocks orgasm abated, and Johns cock was finally able to vacate Sherlock's premises in an orderly manner and he could dispose of the condom, the two men lay back down on the bed, their bodies sweaty and their faces flushed. 

John reached across and gently cupped Sherlock's now soft penis. He leaned over and kissed it with butterfly kisses down its long length. They kissed deeply and drank deeply staring into each other's eyes. 

Then John rolled back over, lay back, and they both fell into a deep sleep, John on his back, with Sherlock curled up alongside, his head tucked into Johns armpit. 

When John woke briefly an hour later, he was amused to see that Sherlock, still fast asleep, was now sucking his thumb. He looked about seven, sleep smoothing the lines from his face and a small smile on his lips. John was surprised to see it, given Sherlocks issues with anything being in his mouth when conscious.

'Good job Greg's not here with that camera phone...', John mused as he fell soundly asleep again.

...........

 

Lunch at about two was a pleasant affair, at first. Sherlock and John were enjoying roast chicken and a winter coleslaw with Mummy and Daddy Holmes, and chatting about nothing in particular. Sherlock was being unusually pleasant, which was probably the effects of the sex, he tended to be like that for a few hours afterwards, until the pixie dust wore off. Which it was about to.

Mycroft appeared at last. He was dressed unusually casually, relatively speaking. John didn't think he had ever seen him in anything other than a three piece suit, but today he was wearing a thick soft cotton checked countrymans shirt with a mossy green cashmere pullover and navy blue cords. Even his shoes were different, brown Loakes loafers. He looked - kind of bizarre. Everything was brand new and pressed to perfection of course, but still....John thought this was probably Mycrofts sartorial version of going to a hardcore rave.

Sherlocks parents fussed over Mycroft who tolerated it, but with minimal grace. He glanced over at Sherlock and John, and nodded.

'Ahh. Yes. How lovely. The happy couple have graced us with their presence. Unpacking is such a laborious process, clearly. Given how....long.....it took you, I will expect razor sharp creases in all your clothes and immaculate turnout during your stay.'

'Fuck off, Mycroft.' 

Sherlock had no sooner said it than the other three occupants of the room all snapped 'SherLOCK!' simultaneously.

'Excuse me. Apologies.' Sherlock nodded to his parents but looked sulky. He didn't like being here, he didn't like any time spend in social niceties, with 'people' and 'sitting' and jibes from Mycroft who was just jealous because he had no goldfish of his own. He wanted to be back at Baker Street with his violin and his John and their special Upstairs room and their desert tent. He sighed. This was going to be a long few days. It was only the thirtieth, and they were here until the second of January. 

Mycroft turned to John.  
'I must congratulate you on my brothers improved health, although not, sadly, on his manners.'

John bristled in Sherlock's defence. He did that even when the other person was right. He especially did it when the other person was Mycroft Holmes.

'Yeah, well, manners are several parts. There's the surface stuff, you're really good at that, Mycroft. But that doesn't really mean much without the stuff underneath. Lack of sniping and sarcasm. That's good manners too.'

Mycroft regarded him for a moment, and then turned away slightly.

'Indeed, John. You are quite right, as always.'

........

Mycroft was, in truth, conceding to John, in more ways than one. He was struggling. And he knew it. 

He was still trying to reintegrate himself into Sherlock's life after his little brother's breakdown and recovery. It wasn't proving easy, especially now that Sherlock and John had each other. Not just that they spent so much time together, and John kept Sherlock from the pitfalls that Mycroft rescued him from previously; but also because now Sherlock had John, he was even more arrogant with everyone else than before. Like the only area of weakness he had acknowledged, was no longer there. He was becoming insufferable to anyone but John, Mycroft thought. 

Even Greg Lestrade, who Mycroft relied on to keep him in touch with Sherlock's habits now he had removed all - well, most - of the cameras covering 221B, admitted he was being slightly wound up by the black clad Demi god (self appointed) and his arrogance on crime scenes. Greg was overlooking the several cases of officers alerting him to two men having sex barely out of sight of the crime scene. But he knew words were going to have to be said, and probably sooner rather than later.

........

It wasn't just that though. 

........

No. Nooooo.

It would have been better, much better, were that so.

Mycroft, when he had Sherlock under his wing, could play the big brother, coming to sort out the mess. He was important. He played a role, an important role, in Sherlock's life. And that was enough, while he had that.

And he was struggling not having that now. In what way he was struggling, he wasn't completely sure that he knew. 

A tiny, evil, insidious voice inside of him suggested to Mycroft, that his obsession with Sherlock wasn't entirely explained by his younger brothers undoubted vulnerability, nor even by his own feelings of guilt at not having been able to save Sherlock from Jonathon Lang. 

Mycroft shouted down that small voice. Which would have been the end of it.

............

But. 

...........

It was more than that. Undeniably. 

There were dreams, sometimes. 

Ones that seemed utterly real, ones that shocked him even while still experiencing the dream, ones that he woke from, gasping, clutching at his body and at the sheets, and found his bed drenched in sweat, but worse, much worse, his nightwear soiled by his own corruption.

Dreams that During, made him weep with blissful ecstasy : and that After, made him weep with bitter, hopeless guilt.

Mycroft told that tiny voice that it would never see the light of day. 

He couldn't help his unconscious, he reasoned. And in his conscious mind, his conscious actions, he would act without fear or reproach. As he had always done, all these years.

So when it happened, he stripped his sheets, stripped his mind of thoughts that should not be there, and went on with his day, toppling the corrupt, annihilating the despot, bankrupting the criminal. Things he could control. 

It didn't help that he knew all about the equipment and fixtures Upstairs at 221B. And about the desert camp. He might have removed the internal security cameras and bugs but there were still external ones, and besides, Sherlocks credit and debit card records were sent to him every month. 

Apart from loose change, he knew exactly what Sherlock spent every penny that went out of his account on. John Watson. All of it. 

Which would have made what was over the horizon less regrettable, from Mycroft's purely self interested view; if only it hadn't been for the price of the effect It had on his beloved brother. That, he really really did come to regret. Later.

........

After lunch they all went their own merry and less-than-merry ways. Mycroft, clearly relieved, to his endless paperwork and minion mustering : Sherlock to play chess with his mother who was a demon player and had demanded a game ever since they arrived. 

Mycroft was a better player than Sherlock but Mycroft was still running the country, so Sherlock would have to suffice. She beat him roundly twice, and only drew the third match deliberately because he was getting tetchy. He then became grumpier still, because he knew that was what she had done. He vowed to practise more. Perhaps he could teach John? He wasn't sure John was interested in chess. 

John read the papers and chatted with Sherlock's father. He found Mr Holmes senior very interesting, not because of what he said, but because of what he didn't. Sherlock's father was interested in everything John had to say about doctoring, the army, London, whatever it was, but John was able to extract very little from him. About his own interests, the family, and especially the children's childhoods. 

This last one was understandable to some degree, given what had happened that one ghastly summer, but John was frustrated that the whole of Sherlock and Mycrofts childhoods seemed to have been obliterated from discussion by the events of a few short weeks. 

Maybe that's what abuse did? Overwrote all the years and years of good times, happy memories and made those around relentlessly look forward, forward, never back. Only Mycroft seemed to acknowledge it slightly more openly. 

Perhaps, as parents, Sherlock's mother and father simply couldn't. Did the British thing. Don't Dwell. Don't complain. Bear it. It was practically the upper class stiff upper lip in action. But John wondered how healing it was? 

Still, it wasn't him that had to bear it so directly. Nor, to be fair, had Sherlocks psychological state been ideal before the rapes. Who was he to judge? 

.............

Dinner that night was roast beef. Mrs Holmes served them all, piling the plates generously.

John quickly saw that Sherlock was struggling, both with the amount of food he had been given, and the difficulty of neatly cutting it into portions he could manage. As John's plate was still empty, he signalled to Mrs Holmes not to serve him, and he quietly exchanged his plate for Sherlock's , and then picked out the tenderest rarest bits of beef, cut tiny cubes of potato and parsnip and carrot and a single spoonful of peas, placing them on the empty plate, then added gravy. 

He saw the Holmes parents stare as he undertook this routine, glancing at Mycroft as he passed the plate over to a very grateful looking Sherlock, who then ate his small portion happily. 

............

After the meal, Mr Holmes took John aside into his study, while Sherlock and Mycroft helped their mother clear the plates. Mycroft looked distinctly camp with a flowery tea towel over his arm. Sherlock looked bored and desperate for some nicotine patches or a cigarette. They argued over the right way to arrange the wine glasses in a cupboard. Mrs Holmes eventually told Mycroft he was released, in order to prevent the conflict turning nuclear, allowing Sherlock to obsess over the direction the etched crests on the crystal glasses should face, in peace.

Sherlocks father spoke quietly to John.

'Is that how you do it? Get him to eat, I mean? Cut it all up, like a toddler?'

'Thats how I do it. Yes, sir.'

'Is there any progress? Is this better than three months ago? Will there be any progress?'

'You want my honest opinion?'

'I do.'

'No. I don't think it will change. It hasn't changed so far, except the initial leap from barely eating to this point.

I think it's something that we are managing, and we will continue to manage. And while sometimes I'll test the waters, by offering something a little bit bigger, or a food item that's a little bit more of a choking risk, to date that hasn't been a success.

Sherlock is healthier because I'm working within his limitations. If I didn't, he would do what he used to do, and not eat at all; because his determination and will-power is stronger than anyone else's tolerance. He's not manipulating me to get me to do this for attention. It's a physical reaction to experience. Completely logical and coherent' 

Sherlocks father nodded. Looking sad, but accepting. John knew he was about to talk honestly.

'You know, we all wanted to help him? All of us.

It's been so hard, watching someone self destruct. Like watching a piece of yourself dying in front of your eyes. Don't misunderstand me, we both appreciate that Sherlock and Mycroft's jobs, if you can call them that, mean that we risk losing either of them on a regular basis. But that's different; a fair risk from doing something you love. 

This, though: the years of it, seeing him going downhill. Or, a lot of the time, not seeing him, just hearing the bits Mycroft felt able to tell us, which he no doubt sanitised, that was the worst. The very worst.'

John gripped Mr Holmes's arm and placed a supportive hand on his back. 

'From what I know, from Mycroft and Sherlock, I don't think Sherlock was in a place to allow anyone to help him for a long time? Too long. I don't think you could have done anything.'

'He talked to you? Sherlock talked to you about what happened? He's never done that, never. Not with us. I don't know if it was because he couldn't speak of it, or if he was trying to spare us the full details?'

John thought for a moment how to phrase his next statements.

'Well, to be fair, sir, most people don't talk to their parents about sex. They don't have to, unless they want to. Not in detail, I mean. Let alone an eleven year old being made to talk about extreme non consensual sex. 

And then, if the talking doesn't happen early on, it isn't going to happen later. But he was probably being logical too. Why spread the misery of the full details? Of course, if he had, he could have offloaded some of the pain, maybe, and made his own pain less. 

But he didn't see it like that, I think. It's a measure of his love for you that he didn't want you to know. Because knowing. Well. It's not been great. Knowing the details. Y'know, I'm a doctor. And I've never dealt with anything as bad as - what he had to go through.

So yes, we have talked about it, kind of. In a roundabout way. We wrote stuff down. Stuff about our relationship. About physical things that were ok, things we'd done, wanted to do. 

Sorry, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable?' 

Mr Holmes laughed.  
'Young man, I served in the military in my young days, there's not much I haven't seen or heard about. Continue, please.'

John nodded. 

'Theres not much to tell really, just that writing down what he had done in the past enabled Sherlock to describe some of those things under each bullet point. He did it, was able to do it, because he knew I needed that data to be able to avoid triggering a flashback, or worse, through ignorance. His need for our relationship was in the end, greater than the fear of me knowing. He knew I wouldn't, couldn't, be with him, without my knowing how not to hurt him. That was the breakthrough. 

It was astonishingly brave. I think it's the bravest thing I've ever seen anyone do. There were only maybe seven sentences but it was a real breakthrough. Not in talking about the events, we don't, can't do that; I'm not sure he ever will; but just in having told me what went on in summary terms.

I can't begin to understand how hard it was for you and Sherlock's mother. Really. '

Sherlocks father hugged him. Hugged John when he couldn't hug Sherlock, his own son. Didn't have the emotional permission to do that.

'Thank you John. I appreciate it. All I can say is how delighted I am to see my son looking so well, and clearly so very happy.'

........

Dusk fell before four this far north (the latitude was north of Moscow; only the Gulf Stream effect moderating the climate somewhat), and the quiet and cosy evening was spent in front of the fire, drinking tea and watching television. John guessed these long winter days were balanced by those at midsummer, when it never got completely dark at all, and it was perfectly light at four in the morning.

Sherlock and John were on a sofa, John sitting at one end and Sherlock lying along it with his head in John's lap. John idly stroked his curls. No one seemed to mind or call him a disgusting pervert like they would at his mothers house. Mycroft was in the study, avoiding, or possibly instigating, World War 3. 

John wished he had a Holmes family and not a Watson one. They were all great, even Mycroft, he thought. 

He wouldn't think that for very much longer. About Mycroft. Or the Holmes family in general. He couldn't see the clock, but that didn't mean it wasn't ticking down.


	4. Confrontation

After a night of suitably energetic pursuits in the Yellow Room, the two rose early on New Year's Eve. They looked at the bed. 

Oh dear. What was Caitlin going to think, looking at those sheets? The chocolate ice cream Sherlock had found in the freezer when looking for ice cubes (also for illicit purposes) had seemed like a good idea at 3am but had made a terrible mess. 

Worth it though. John had been licking it off Sherlock and when he got to the largest dollop in Sherlock's tummy button, he stuck his tongue in it hard and bit, and without warning Sherlock had come, and almost all of It had ended up in Johns hair, necessitating a shower which predictably resulted in more sex, (albeit this time in an easier to clean environment).

John frowned. Brown stains aren't the best to leave on your sort of in-laws bed linen. Obviously ice cream ones would come out easily but...first impressions....this wasn't great.

'Vanilla only. No more chocolate. No strawberry. And definitely no Tutti Fritti' 

Sherlock pouted. 

'Tutti Frutti has got bits in it. That's food. You want me to eat, don't you John?' 

'Dont manipulate me, you lanky little shit. Your food issues are not a cause for humour. Get over here so I can put you over my knee.' 

John knew this wasn't really a punishment but a treat for Sherlock, but he could take out some irritation while doing it. He was probably too enthusiastic, really, egged on by Sherlock. Went on a bit too long, hit a bit too hard.

Spanking over, they went down to breakfast, John marching and Sherlock, wincing slightly, adopting a rather more cautious gait. They met Mycroft at the bottom of the staircase, who took one look at Sherlock's stately progress, and raised a single eyebrow. 

He said only 'A word, brother dear? Doctor Watson, would you excuse us for a few moments?' 

John nodded. 'Of course.' And proceeded to the dining room, wondering which of their lifestyle choices was going to form the basis of the discussion. He sighed, and pondered the current choice. Bacon or sausage? Fried bread, now there was a throwback. Or a Butttery? 

He went for bacon and Butteries, the infamous Grampian bread roll made with a fuckton of melted butter, originally invented for the fishing trawler crews operating out of Aberdeen and Peterhead, who expended about a zillion calories an hour in horrendous conditions out in the North Sea; but which were now mainly eaten by overweight sedentary creatures in outsize track suits. John only dared have one. But they did taste nice, though they needed to be very fresh, he thought, like these. 

........

Mycroft indicated to Sherlock to follow him into the small but well furnished library. He sat down behind the desk in a large revolving captains chair, and, adopting the characteristic Holmes finger steeple gesture, looked hard at his little brother, who was wandering slowly and stiffly around the room, distractedly picking up small items of interest and peering at them, before discarding them again. 

'Sherlock. I need to ask you. About your relationship with John.'

Sherlock sighed dramatically.

'No, Mycroft, you don't NEED to ask me anything about my relationship with John. But you're going to, because you've spent so long poking your nose into my business that you're really finding it quite hard to resist.' 

Mycroft scowled.

'Mummy and I are a little concerned about the bruises?'

A bigger scowl in return...

'Ah, I see. A low blow already, bringing Mummy into it. How very typical. Mummy, as you well know, is delighted with my weight gain and obvious happiness. Which is all down to John Watson. So, we've established I'm happy. So let's stick to you, Mycroft. YOU'RE clearly not happy. Why not?'

'Because of the bruises and cuts, Sherlock. I saw some of them when you reached up for the liqueur glasses last night. And when you walked down the stairs just now, well......you were clearly in some physical discomfort.' 

'Nonsense.'

'It's not nonsense, Sherlock. I'm concerned. I'm concerned that you might be exchanging one form of self abuse through drugs and stranger sex, for another, physical violence. Whether through partner abuse or your own request.' 

Mycroft sighed, opened a drawer, and threw a sheaf of papers onto the desk in front of Sherlock. 

They were photocopies of the online orders and payment receipts, even delivery dockets, for all of the equipment Upstairs. Even photos of delivery men carrying the stuff into 221B.

Sherlock stared. And paled.

'I thought you said you removed the surveillance?', he said, his voice small and tight and quiet. 

'Well I have, of course, from inside 221B. My word is my bond. No bugs, no cameras. Exactly as I promised. 

Sherlock, that area of London is riddled with external CCTV. And the paperwork is a routine matter crossing my desk. While I control the family trust and you are spending its monies, everything you spend is transparent to me. The trustees, myself included, ceded powers to spend some monies to you, Sherlock, but oversight of WHAT you spend the money on is still very much their concern. 

And they, and I, are concerned. It's one thing buying kilts for Doctor Watson, and recreating his desert tent so you can play soldier sex games; and the notion of purchasing 221 Baker Street makes financial sense, as well as security for you and Mrs Hudson as she ages: but Sherlock, Sherlock, it's quite another thing (at this, Mycroft came round and sat on the front of the desk) using Trust monies buying St Andrews crosses and racks. For Gods sake, Sherlock!'

Sherlock looked mutinous.  
'It was a 'cheapest one free' deal. I bought the St Andrews cross and the rack and got a load of other stuff free. I've got three stretcher bars, you can have one if you like. It's quite clean, unused. I don't mind?'

He was making things up now, but he didnt care now. He was in that familiar trapped by Mycroft scenario, and like a bear in a trap, would chew off his own leg to get free. Mycroft made him feel like sticking his tongue out, shouting 'poo-ey pants' and running away.

'....Anyway we haven't used all of it? '

Mycroft interrupted. 

'I don't care what things you may or may not have used. The trustees are concerned again now, about your capacity and judgement to run your own affairs. And I share their concern. Can I assume that in your relationship with John Watson, it is run along vaguely sub:Dom lines with you as the sub?'

'It's not really like that Mycroft. You wouldn't understand stuff like...'

'Oh, little brother. Don't be naive. Your tastes are hardly unique or special. Anyway, you haven't denied it so let us assume this is the case, and that the injuries I observe are at the hands of your dear 'Doctor'. 

I wonder what the BMA panel would say? "Do no harm"? Isn't that a British doctors sworn oath?'

This was getting nasty....

.................

'Where are you going with this Mycroft?' Sherlock spat. 'You know John. You know he would never do anything either to harm a hair on my head or that was in any way abusive or non-consensual. That he wouldn't even contemplate any of this scene, if he didn't see the real benefits it gave me?' 

'That may be so, Sherlock. But the fact remains, that you; a man who has spent his adult life mostly either shooting up, starving himself, or hiring his body out to the nearest drug dealer, all added to the childhood abuse; is perhaps someone who may not know where to draw the line and not step beyond it, in this particular kind of relationship? 

I AM warning you, Sherlock. 

Don't exchange abuse meted out to you for abuse you invited to be inflicted. If the line is crossed, even a short way, this relationship ends.'

'You can't do that. How exactly could you end it or separate us? We are a single unit now.'

'Oh Sherlock. That question degrades you. You know me much too well to think that I couldn't do it. 

Anyway, it won't be you I will separate from John Watson. It will be John Watson who will be persuaded that he should walk away from you. That you are toxic. That your poison corrupts him, and poisons you too, and that his and your only redemption lies in his total, permanent absence from your life.' 

..........

Sherlock was white with fury. He stood close to Mycroft, looking him straight in the eye.

'I enjoy our lifestyle. I enjoy the things John and I do. When we do them, I get the only complete moments of peace from the noise in my brain, from the memories, from the pain of it all, that I have ever experienced, except maybe with speedballs. 

I accept that you could concoct a scheme to separate John and myself. I know what you are capable of. I have seen you arrange a killing with a nod of the head. But I am warning you now, Mycroft. 

You do anything, anything at all, to make John Watson even think of leaving me, however well intentioned it may be, and I will kill you, brother. Without flinching. And then I will kill myself. But your killing will be much, much more painful. And I care little for my own life except in so far as my death will cause pain to John Watson.

I don't know what your motives behind all this are. I know you can see I am overall healthier and happier than I've ever been?'

Mycroft interjected. Speaking quietly now, with his head resting on his hands. 

'I suppose I really, really, don't understand why an abuse victim would exchange one type of physical and sexual violence with another?' 

Mycroft, you need to do some research. Get some data. That's like saying that it's odd for a rape victim to want a sexual relationship with someone later on. The difference, you jumped-up arrogant twat, is the whole world. Two words. Control and consent. 

Everything we do is something I have chosen. I always chose the activity and the level. John's control is vested in his power to refuse to agree to a request, and also in more vanilla sexual activities, he is in complete control. Because that's how I like it, Mycroft. I freely admit that. But in the physical activities, ones that might cause damage, I'm submissive but dictate the whole thing. We have safe words and we use them. And yes, I have asked John for things that he has refused. So this is not out of control, it is not abuse and it is not any of your business.

You know all this, I don't understand why you are being so condemnatory. I can hardly imagine you are a total stranger to this kind of scene? Given your association with politicians. It's practically compulsory for a lot of them, I believe.'

'I'm not, of course a stranger to it, Sherlock.' Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

The difference here is that you are my brother and you AREN'T the same as other people. Your history, your addictive personality, the things you have gone through. They make it more dangerous for you. I care about you and I'm concerned to protect you. It's what I've always done.'

'No, Mycroft, it's what you always did. Not any more. I have John, now.'

Mycroft's expression suddenly looked sad. Sherlock continued.

'Stay out of my affairs and stop meddling, or John and I will leave the country and you will not see me again on British soil.'

The two men glowered at each other, caught in a stalemate of resentment, but loving each other too much to shake it off as something unimportant. It was bitter because they cared.

.................

As Sherlock made his final threat, there came a knock at the door and a tousled wheaten head poked round. 

John. Thank heaven.

Sherlock looked longingly and gratefully to him. John studied his face. Ah. Right. Mycroft has been bullying you, I think.....

'You two have been a long time with your chat. Everything OK, Sherlock?'

Sherlock could hear the dangerous quiet John. John knew something was up. John was raising up his hedgehog prickles. 

Mycroft answered before Sherlock could. 

'Yes, indeed John. All sorted. Just some queries over Trust paperwork. The trustees do like to make sure that everyone is happy and everything is in order, so to speak, to avoid any 'difficulties' further down the line.' 

This was so obviously rubbish, that John just opened and closed his mouth, and his eyes narrowed as he looked from Mycroft to Sherlock and back again. Something more than the obvious bullying was beginning to bug him, a suspicion that he'd thought about before, but dismissed. Now, it came back and rang the doorbell of his thoughts once again. And held its finger on the buzzer..........He looked at Mycroft a second time. At the sadness in his expression. Like a thwarted lover.

Then, drawing an (unwelcome) conclusion, he set his shoulders. 

'After you', he said to Sherlock.

Sherlock said nothing and stalked out of the library, followed by John, marching in almost military time. Mycroft stayed behind. 

..........

John caught up with Sherlock at the top of the stairs on their way back to the room. 

'You haven't had any breakfast.' 

'Not hungry.' 

'Sherlock.' They were in the room now. John kicked the door shut. 'Sherlock, talk to me. That bollocks Mycroft was spouting, what was that really about? ' 

'I don't know. I don't like not knowing. Don't worry about it, John. It's not important.' 

It was clear John wasn't going to get any further with his questioning, so, casting a long searching look at Sherlock, he went to shave, their morning activities having put that on hold.

But Sherlock being that evasive, and telling John not to worry, that raised alarm bells. They had hidden nothing from one another the last few months. This was the first time. That fact only solidified his ideas. He was going to have a little John Watson chat with the elder Holmes. Right now.

.........

John wasted little time. 

He distracted Sherlock by manipulating it so that Mr Holmes senior demanded that Sherlock accompany him to go and see the old pheasantry. Sherlock wasn't remotely interested, but John encouraged him to go, and Sherlock concluded it would give him a chance to think about Mycrofts strange tirade. His father didn't demand much in the way of attention span and he could easily make interested noises about the fearfully dull pheasant poult pens or whatever. 

John wasted no time. As soon as they had left, he checked that Mrs Holmes was occupied chatting to Caitlin, who was ironing in the laundry room, and he headed for the library. He didn't knock, just went straight in, sat down, and waited for Mycroft to raise his head from his papers.

'John. I didn't hear your knock. What a pleasant surprise. I hope you breakfasted well?'

'Dont give me that social nicety shit, Mycroft. What have you been saying to Sherlock?'

'As I said, John..'

'Cut it. It doesn't take that long to talk about VAT receipts. What did you say to him to make him look like someone had hit him in the playground?' 

Mycroft thought, 'Well you would know about the hitting, John.' But didn't say that. 

'Family matters, John. Holmes matters. Now, if you will excuse me, I always take a walk around the lower lake at this time of day. If I'm lucky, Caitlin will have a bag of bread and cake crusts for me to take for the ducks, they do so appreciate something warming at this time of year, in this weather.' 

Mycroft attempted to brush past John but found his wrist suddenly held in a vice like grip.

'You do know, don't you, even though it's really none of your FUCKING business, Mycroft; that I love your brother more than life itself? That I would use my last breath to protect him?'

'I am aware of that, yes, John.' Mycrofts wrist was twisted slightly, agonisingly.

'Good. Because you know, Mycroft, if I didn't know that Sherlock was your brother; and that all your efforts for him over the years were selfless and noble and caring; I would be tempted to say that you might be acting as if you were a tiny weeny teensy little bit jealous. And I don't mean jealous in a benign way. I mean it in the way you know I mean it, Mycroft.

Sherlock doesn't know we are having this conversation. Sherlock will not know the content of this conversation. He should never need to, anyway. But let me make myself clear, Mycroft. I understand that your nose is out of joint by my presence in Sherlocks life. I can work with that, and help you to develop your relationship, so that it's better than even the one you had before I arrived in the picture.

But if you manipulate or damage our relationship, especially if you do so because underneath all the good stuff, the caring stuff, the genuine stuff, which I absolutely believe and accept are true and good and right; a small portion of your feelings for Sherlock are...how shall I say...not wholly brotherly......then, Mycroft, I will rip your limbs from you. One by one. And that's not a figure of speech. It's a description.

And worse than that, maybe instead of that I will tell Sherlock. Tell him what you want to do to him. Tell him that you weren't guilty about Lang getting to him, that you were jealous of Lang, Mycroft; that you were jealous because you wanted to be the one to do those things to your delicious little brother, and that Lang just got there first and you couldn't bear that.'

'That's disgusting! And it's not true!' 

The pain of the ever increasing twist of his wrist caused tears to spring to Mycrofts eyes, and he bit his lip. 

John seemed not to notice, and continued.

'Not all of it, I know. Almost none of it. I know that. I know you are a good brother and a caring one. 

But there's a tiny bit that is true. Isn't there, Mycroft? 

And that's enough. Enough to plant a doubt in Sherlocks mind. Enough for me to ruin you. Enough for your parents to disown you, your friends to desert you and your brother to despise the ground you touch.

You fuck with us, Mycroft, and that tiny little grain of truth, that you like your little brother a little bit more than you ought to, a little bit more than is proper and decent, will be wrapped in a great big lie. Isn't that the most effective way? It's how you sold him out to Jim, isn't it?

He'll fear and despise you, Mycroft, by the time I finish with you, more than Lang in the end. 

So do not threaten him Mycroft, and don't threaten me or our relationship. Ever. Because if you take us down, I will take you down with us, far, far deeper. Do I make myself clear?'

..............

With that, John threw Mycrofts hand aside, and stalked to the door. He stopped when he reached it as Mycroft spoke. 

'You make yourself clear. I understand, John. You need fear nothing from me on this topic again.' 

John nodded, turned on his heel like the soldier he used to be, and left the room. 

...............

Mycroft Holmes went to the door, locked it, and returning to the desk, switched off his phone and laptop, placed his head in his hands and wept. 

He wept tears of a man who always wins the game, but has just been completely outplayed by an opponent who wasn't even ranked or seeded, and doesn't even have the basic kit. 

His tears were also, though of pain. He didn't know how John Watson had calculated his weakness. Perhaps he hadn't, and it had been a lucky gamble. 

He would do anything to avoid Sherlock ever being aware. 

He didn't actually want a real life relationship with his brother. It was a fantasy thing. Genuinely. 

In real life he just wanted a little bit of his brothers love and attention and time. But John Watsons threat to wrap the little truth in a big lie, just like Moriarty, left him at his mercy. 

He could just have John eliminated of course. Untraceably. Sherlock would be thrown back on him. But that wasn't an option, because Sherlock wouldn't crawl back to him and let Mycroft comfort him, he would kill himself. That was the extent of John Watson's power now. And John, he was sure, knew it.

He decided to take a morning rest in his room today, instead of his walk to the lake, and wearily headed up to the Blue Room. He would be glad when it was time to go home. He needed to regroup and they had to get through the Hogmanay ball. And the Middle East was as intractable as ever.

...........

Sherlock, on his return from an excruciatingly dull walk with his father, in which they discuss absolutely nothing of any significance and which entire discussion he instantly deleted, met John in their room. 

John looked drained but also a ball of barely contained rage. He was pacing up and down the room like a sentry toy that's been over wound.

'You've talked to Mycroft?'. Sherlock deduced that much. He was surprised. 

'I have.' 

'Was it helpful? Enlightening? Or just irritating?'

'Something of all three. We should find a shed load less interference in our affairs in future, I hope.'


	5. Hogmanay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More smut!

Lunch was a silent, sulky affair. Mr and Mrs Holmes looked alternately at Mycroft and Sherlock, who didn't meet each other's eyes. Sherlock ate nothing, because there was no John. John had refused to even sit in the same room as Mycroft and Sherlock was planning to take him up a sandwich, as the lunch was cold chicken and salad anyway; a hurried affair because of the need to prepare the house for the Hogmanay dance that evening. 

There were apparently family friends and even relations of the Holmes family coming to the dance, along with locals. The house manager of the original family mansion was also invited, plus the local MP, a few councillors and a sprinkling of local lairds, all with names like Innes and Sandy and Alistair. There was even a Sholto, which gave Sherlock a shock as he read down the list, but his heart settled when he realised it wasn't That Sholto. It was an uncommon but not rare name up here and as with this one, more usual as a forename.

After lunch, Sherlock knocked gently at the Yellow Room and walking in, set down the tray with sandwiches and cake plus tea on the bureau. John was sitting on the side of the bed, staring out of the window. 

'John, are you alright? If you're not, we can, you know. Leave. Today. If you need to?'

John turned to him and smiled a small tight smile. 

'No, we owe it to your parents to stay for tonight's dance. But I would quite like to go back tomorrow instead of the second, if that's possible. I'm finding Mycroft quite unsettling.'

'Then we shall do that. Lestrade has sent me some papers anyway that I want to look at, I had to leave them behind as they were too bulky. I'll book the flights. 

Anyway, I want to get back home to enjoy you properly again, with all our set-up' 

John looked at him. 'I did bring a few ropes. And cuffs.' 

'You did? 

Hmmm. In that case it would be practically rude not to. But cover the bedposts with towels before cuffing me to them, Mummy will go feral if she finds scratches and I don't want to explain how they came about.'

An hour later, a practically purring Sherlock was lying spent and exhausted on the bed, his body skilfully and artistically trussed so that it had provided maximum sensation for Sherlock and maximum ease of access and compliance for John. 

'That' he murmured, 'is much more like a holiday should be.' 

After a walk in the grounds, including a revisit of the genuinely tedious pheasantry, and some vicious snowball fighting, it was time to come back and get ready for the dance.

Sherlock attempted to show John how to dance some of the simpler reels. It was easier to learn on the hoof at the dance, to be honest, as without the other members of the lines it was hard to visualise, but John was a willing pupil, although they did keep getting a little distracted with each other's proximity. Sherlock had to nip along the corridor to his parents rooms to steal some of Mummy Holmes' foundation and concealer to cover up the love bite on his impossibly pale skinned neck.

Finally about five, they bathed and then dressed, Sherlock in his trews, John in his hated kilt. 

Sherlock was ready first, pantalooned and trewed, looking extraordinary and stunning, and then he watched John get ready. But John had only donned his shirt and underpants before Sherlock was intervening. 

'No pants.'

'Oh come on Sherlock. Don't tell me that's not an urban myth? This isn't 'Carry on Up the Khyber' you know?

'Carry What up the What?'

It's a comedy film. You know, Sid James, Hattie Jacques, Kenneth Williams? First Foot and Mouth Regiment? Memsahibs and Tiffin? No, OK. Remind me to inflict it on you.'

'John. It is not an urban myth. But anyway, even if it were, I want you to leave them off. Just for tonight.'

'Oh god, you're going to get handsy aren't you? During the dance?'

Not so much then. Later. While the guests are eating trifle and cranachan and wife swapping. Then, John. Then I am going to get under that kilt and I am going to bend you over Fathers desk, or this bed, to the distant strains of the Dashing White Sergeant, and I am going to screw you into it.'

John gulped. Sherlock had only fucked him three times during their six months together. It looked like tonight was going to be number four?

'No pants then. Right,' 

..............

The dance was, John had to admit, quite good fun. Sherlock and Mycroft were both excellent dancers and much in demand, leaving John to people-watch and chat to the Holmes contingent for much of the time. The Holmes relatives he spotted were all tall, dark and for the most part Scottish or French, and some of them were obnoxiously loud and garrulous. Mycroft and Sherlock were definitely the odd ones out. He spotted someone who must be Uncle Rudy too, trying to balance a large plate of trifle on his black velvet bodice, a green taffeta skirt giving him the appearance of a sea creature rising up from the depths of the ocean. He wore some large emerald drop earrings and a silver Tiffany choker. John grinned at him, admiring his courage. Rudy's wife Margaret sat close by, talking to other Holmes ladies. 

When there were simpler dances, Sherlock came over and grabbed John, who observed that Sherlock was seemingly already starting to act the dominant one tonight. He guided and manhandled John to the right positions during the reels, and eventually John started to relax and enjoy it. He saw some admiring glances, some curious glances, and, inevitably, some jealous and a few openly hostile glances. He didn't care, this was fun, he was a little drunk now, and he leaned in to Sherlock as they walked from the dancefloor. 

They had almost reached the table, watched by many eyes, when Sherlock suddenly took him by the lapels of his Prince Charlie jacket, pressed him close and kissed him long and passionately. 

It was the first really major kiss they had shared in front of the Holmes family and John wished that Sherlock had been a bit more subtle. But he soon melted under the onslaught and the kiss became more passionate.

John became aware that the room had grown quieter. The pair broke away at last, breathing hard; John hardly daring to look up. 

As he did so, the reels and ceilidh band booked for the night, decided to raise the humour level of the tense situation, and broke into a rendition of The Wedding March. Laughter rang out from all around the room, and the awkwardness dissipated. 

They reached the Holmes table. Mycroft was glowering, but Mr and Mrs Holmes looked unruffled. 

'Sherlock', Mummy Holmes said gently. 'You danced very dutifully with all the ladies from the Kirk, as well as that terrible old trout from the Pony Club. John looks a little tired. Don't feel you have to circulate amongst us oldies. Consider yourselves released from mingling duties.' 

Sherlock looked gratefully at her, sneered at Mycroft, and then, taking John's hand, led him from the hall. He pulled him up the stairs, along the corridor, and for the first time this stay, he locked the corridor door, as well as their bedroom one. 

John licked his lips nervously. He noticed that there was lube and condoms on the bed. He hadn't put them there. 

There was as dark look in Sherlocks eyes as he came up behind John. They were both still tense and distracted from their run-ins with Mycroft.

Sherlock took the lube and condoms, and pushed John to the end of the bed. He made no attempt to undress, simply unzipping his trews and unlacing the now sweaty silk under trousers. 

He was hard as a rock already. He roughly pulled John's kilt up, and pushed his shoulders forward and down so that John's face was on the bed, his backside in the air and the long kilt covering his back and up to his neck. John felt exposed and bizarre. They had done this thing where he bottomed, Sherlock penetrating him, three times. It hasn't always been gentle like it was the first time, but it had always been slow and careful and measured, reflecting John's hangups about it. Not this time.

But his nervous anticipation of what was coming had made him fully erect already. He only flagged slightly when he realised just how tense Sherlock was, and how close to coming already. 

His tension increased when he sensed how things were going to go. Sherlock didn't give him much preparation. OK? This wasn't how this normally went? Instead of slow and gentle one finger, then two, then three, Sherlock this time slicked his fingers up with lube and leaning over John to bite his back and neck, shoved a finger straight in, twisting and hooking immediately. A second followed only a few seconds later. It hurt. Really actually did hurt. 

John thought about saying something, using an orange or even a red safe word. But he didn't. He didn't know why. Was he scared of Sherlock in this mood? He didn't think so. He just needed to let this run. Work through stuff. By this time there were three fingers. A stinging sensation. 

John expected the next step when Sherlock removed his fingers to be the sensation of Sherlocks cock breaching his body. Instead, he saw Sherlock take an item from his suitcase. It was a dildo. A larger one than they had used before. Larger than Sherlocks cock, for sure. John bit his lip. 

Sherlock held the thing in front of John. 'This. Is going in you. Now.'  
John said nothing. But nodded. 

Sherlock was equally rough with the dildo, lubing it up and then ramming it into John with some force. It pushed all the breath out of Johns lungs and he buried his head in the bedclothes, trying to overcome the sting of it. He bit his tongue as Sherlock gave it one last shove, so it was seated within him, and he could taste the blood on his lips. 

'Fucking hell, Sherlock' he said. 'Show me some mercy.'

Ahh, too much John? It is rather large. Okay.'

And again, too quickly, much too quickly, Sherlock pulled the dildo out in just one movement, causing John to gasp. 

He did more than gasp the next minute as Sherlock sheathed his cock, lubed up and grasping his hips, slid straight into Johns entrance in one vicious thrust until his hips were pressed against Johns buttocks. He did no gentle gradual thrusting to accommodate himself, but instead, gripping John with one hand on his shoulder and pushing down, and with another on his hip, began a relentless campaign of long hard violent merciless thrusts, pushing Johns head further down and allowing him no chance to catch a breath or find a comfortable position or rhythm.

He moved the hand from Johns shoulder now and gathered it underneath John, pulling him up into the thrusts so that John could feel them piercing his very core, slamming into his prostate with every thrust. Johns own cock was practically  
purple now, and he knew he would come untouched. He could feel the rough wool of the trews and the damp silk of the undertrousers brushing his skin with every thrust, and the soreness it was creating sent him further into the exquisite abyss. 

John came first, as Sherlock drew back and rammed into him so hard he thought he would see stars. A world of bright white light covered his vision and he came messily all over himself, all over the sheets. The gathering tension of his orgasm and the clenching of all his muscles seemed to send Sherlock over too, because the next second it seemed, he came and as he did so, ejaculating inside the condom, inside John, he growled and howled like a caged animal. 

.........

Collapsed on the bed, it was some time before they spoke. Or moved.

Sherlock broke the silence. 

'Was it good for you? I'm sorry if I was rough.'

'It was fine. Good. Not what we usually do. But fine.'

It wasn't a completely ringing endorsement. But Sherlock had wanted to take John, in that kilt, while still wearing his trews. John was ....ok with it. Would he want it to become a pattern? Maybe not. Might have to say something if it did....

Sherlock looked across at John. 

'We're going home tomorrow. When we get there, I want to go Upstairs. And then sleep in the desert?' 

'Of course we will.' John stroked Sherlocks damp brow, smoothing his curls back from his forehead. 'Of course.'


	6. Baker Street. Disaster.

They said their farewells after a late breakfast the following morning. Mycroft was in attendance, and John consented to be in his presence this time; but the atmosphere was chilly, and Sherlocks parents looked concerned. As they kissed Sherlock and John goodbye, they clasped Sherlocks hands for longer than one would have expected. John thought they might hug Sherlock, or he them, but it didn't happen. 

The drive to the airport was quicker than to the station, as they were on the right side of the city, and didn't need to go into the city centre. Sherlock drove fast. John thought he might like to come back here, maybe go skiing in the Cairngorms, which were only an hour inland from Aberdeen. Or come in the summer for a holiday, like the Queen does, and go walking in Deeside and towards Braemar.

The flight was only just over an hour, and they landed at Heathrow to a snow-free and grey hued London. It took them nearly as long to do the last leg to Baker Street, as it had to get from Aberdeen to Heathrow, and reaching home felt so good, they couldn't stop smiling at one another. Free of scrutiny, free of Mycroft. What could be better? 

When they got back, they made tea and ate the extraordinary selection of Shortbread that seemed to be the obligatory travel snack for any Caledonian expedition. Like going to the Lake District and trying to escape without a squashed packet of Kendal mint cake. Just couldn't be done.

That night they slept in the desert tent but Sherlock was too tired after chasing down his cold case all day (and not getting to the end even then), to do much more than sleep. They clung to one another in love and happiness.

Sherlock slept a lot more, these days, partly because he ate more, but partly also because he had the solid, comforting presence of John next to him. It was like being cocooned by love and safety. When they were (infrequently) parted, both his eating and sleeping became sparse and chaotic once again, and while John was aware that this level of dependence wasn't ideal, there didn't seem to be much alternative, nor harm since they didn't intend ever to be parted. 

The parting came much sooner than they could have imagined.

............

The following night was when disaster struck.

They had enjoyed a great day, the best. Sherlock was on a high, having solved two intractable cold cases before Lestrade had even got back to his desk after New Year. Donovan had to thank Sherlock in person, as she was standing in for Greg. That, alone, made the trials of Scotland fade away. Sherlock was positively gleeful.

He was cheerful, funny, and John managed to get so much sushi into him at lunchtime that John thought he might pop. That made John too, very, very happy. He couldn't stop smiling.

It was an unusually fine evening for this time of year, the cloud cover had cleared, and the low orange sun cast fire-like patches on all the buildings and bridges just before dusk. They kissed in Regent's Park and John thought about maybe perhaps he could look at jobs, once everything wound back up, after the holidays were over. Maybe something working with veterans as a medic? That wouldn't involve treating kids and he thought it would give him a lot back in return. 

Yep. He'd look at that seriously. 

..............

They got back to Baker Street around eight, with takeaway in hand; and despite the impressive sushi intake earlier, Sherlock managed a respectable selection of cut up bits of spiciness.

Afterwards, they lay back together on the sofa, in front of the fire, and John triumphantly produced from his bag the DVD he'd ordered online when they were in Scotland, and which had arrived today. 

'Yes, Sherlock, you lucky lad, you are going to watch Carry on Up the Khyber'.

Sherlock hardly grumbled at all. He even laughed loudly (a bit like his out-loud laughing at the Palace, John thought), at the mass mooning by the 'Devils in Skirts' (as the regiment were known by their foes). He now understood Johns reference to it, when they had been warring over 'Kilt-gate'. John now had a soft spot for the trews too, though not their buttock-chafing properties.

They went to bed early, John clutching the remains of his glass of beer and Sherlock clutching John. They decided on Upstairs, today had been a Good Day and they deserved a treat.

It started to go a bit downhill from that point.

..............

Sherlock, deprived of upstairs for a while, was particularly demanding tonight, and John had been asked to both cane and whip him for extended periods while he was tied up, and very much harder than normal. 

This was agreed, very reluctantly, and Sherlock had been very satisfied with the large number of wounds and the fact that a few were bleeding. He made John kiss those ones first. They made love in the sand and both came at exactly the same time, leaving them gasping and spent in the heat.

That part was all good. It's all relative, you see. You'd think that was the bad bit, cuts and all. And it was unwise. But it wasn't the bad bit. That came later.

............. 

Sherlock, feeling invincible, and his arrogance now pushing through, had then started pushing John's boundaries again, was once again trussed up on the table, but was now whining and asking John to cut him. 

John, who knew this had been on Sherlock's original 'red line' list, as well as his own, firmly refused. Because he was a Good Man. Mycroft would have been comforted, a little; though he probably wouldn't have approved of the stuff they'd already done.

Sherlock seemed to flip a switch. He'd been struggling with the lack of drugs for an hour or so, the yearning for them having suddenly hit him. He became very angry and agitated, raging at John........and then without warning he seemed to have some kind of panic attack. Struggling to breath, thrashing around, flailing but trapped by his binds.

John had to act fast, and he swiftly cut the bindings tying Sherlock to the table with their emergency knife they kept on top of a cupboard, to free him quickly enough. 

Sherlock was hysterical, accusing John of not wanting to help him by cutting him. Of not helping him free his mind and get some peace. Of not being willing to do what Sherlock wanted him to, and was it because of something Mycroft had said? 

It wasn't, actually, John just wasn't willing to do what Sherlock wanted, however petulant and childish he became. 

.................

This, is still the good part. Relatively speaking. :-(

..................

They made up, of course, indulging in some rather more vanilla sex not normally seen Upstairs, and retired to the tent to sleep the night in the heat. They knew it wasn't too realistic since desert nights could get very cold, but it was the overall hot desert impression they were recreating. 

It was all fine. Everything was fine. They fell asleep, fanned by the desert breeze and listening to the sounds of the Afghan nighttime. Sherlock curled up into a zed shape with John tucked in behind him. They were in love, and all was well with the world. It was a more than a bit Good. 

The bondage gear sat abandoned, with the knife John used to cut the binds, and the whip and the cane. All forgotten.

..............

At about 3 am, something, no one knows what, happened. What the trigger was, John wasn't certain, perhaps a car backfiring in the distance or the howl of a fox. But the trigger cause wasn't important. What happened next, was. 

............ 

John, in a deep sleep, began to experience his first PTSD Afghanistan dream episode since the desert had been installed. 

The realistic physical set up of the desert made the dream seem even more vivid and lifelike than any he had experienced before, more so even than the really terrible ones that had made him suicidal.

He hadn't thought of that. Sherlock hadn't thought of that. Clearly the veterans charity hadn't thought of it. 

Mycroft would have thought of it, but Mycroft's cameras had been removed, and Mycroft had thought the desert camp was purely being used for sex games, and not for sleeping. 

Which was a shame. As it turned out.

...............

He was back there, in the heat and dust and panic. He was under sustained hostile fire. He was trying to treat a friend who had stepped on an IED. The friend had no right leg. Only half the left remained, and the arms were a fucking mess too. The head had taken a major shrapnel wound. He was trying not to panic, trying to do his job, to keep the man alive long enough to evacuate.

Then the enemy snipers started up at them. A colleague right next to John fell back, injured by a direct hit to the leg, leaving John without cover and completely exposed. 

He gathered up the remains of the casualty he was treating and tried to run, made it to the relative safety of a building and his colleagues, and left them to evacuate the man, or what was left of him, and then ran back with his gun loaded to try to take out the snipers. 

He located a cluster of them in a nearby ruin and crept up on it, under fire all the time. His vision clouded by dust and blood. A colleague dealt with the man with the injured leg. John was going to get the bastards who had done this. 

Suddenly he saw movement, and John saw red. He roared and ran forward firing his gun, and when he got to the building he found most of the men had run away but caught one. 

He lost it completely, and battered the man about the head with his rifle butt, until the enemy fighter screamed terrible screams, screams that sounded familiar, and then he bayoneted him in the side and the stomach. Over and over and over and over again. He heard the man groan and groan and whimper.........................and then go quiet. Good. 'Enemy down', he thought. His mind relaxed, and quieted, and the nightmare receded.

.............

And then John Watson woke up in a pool of sweat. That wasn't unusual after this sort of dream.

Red sweat. 

Red sweat? 

Sweat isn't red, John thought?

He looked down to find his own hands covered in red. Red which was blood. And the emergency knife he'd used to cut the bondage ropes earlier, was now in his hands, also completely covered in blood. Not his blood.

And there was a still, lifeless long shape in the bed next to him. One with dark curls.

He peeled back the sheet in wordless horror. 

Unconscious.

Sherlocks hair, matted with blood from several deep head wounds.

Sherlocks pale face, battered beyond recognition, and covered in blood.

Sherlocks body, littered with stab wounds, not bleeding out because the emergency knife was fairly short bladed, but so, so many of them. Everywhere. From his shoulders to his knees. Even. Even.....even.... there. He had even stabbed him there...

John collapsed on the floor. Naked, incoherent, distraught. 

He pressed the 999 emergency button on his phone and managed to whisper 'ambulance, 221B Baker' before screaming at the top of his voice for what seemed like hours. Then passing out on the floor with his hands still soaked in Sherlocks blood and the blood covered phone in his hand.

.........

Mycroft Holmes was working late. 

Mycroft Holmes had both Sherlock's and John's phone use monitored. 

Mycroft Holmes knew about the emergency call as it happened. 

He swore, and cursed the gods, that this brother of his could not be left unharmed. He knew it would be Sherlock and not John, and not only because John had made the call. It was always Sherlock. Always.

He arrived just after the police did. The ambulance staff had arrived, taken one look at the scene, and called the police, who were now there too. 

John, who had by now come round, and had been checked over by the ambulance staff, but was still soaked in blood, was now being handcuffed and read his legal rights and taken away as Mycroft arrived. 

Mrs Hudson was there in her dressing gown, looking frail and inconsolable crying her eyes out, being comforted by Mrs Turner. A crowd of curious bystanders on their way back from the clubs, was chattering away excitedly in the pool of flashing coloured lights cast by the police cars and ambulances.

Mycrofts eyes met John's, Mycroft's gaze like an eagle with prey in its sight. A look of utter venom and contempt.

His gaze communicating unspoken words, reminding John that he had said he cared for and protected Sherlock. The man he had just tried to kill. John Watson, who threatened Mycroft because of some bad fantasy thoughts Mycroft had in his dreams, just thoughts : that same John Watson whose own dreams had led him in reality to batter and stab Sherlock until he was unrecognisable.

It was wasted on John, who looked like a pale ghost. His face, empty and in deep shock, looked straight through Mycroft without seeing him, and he made no protest as he was bundled roughly into the police car. 

Mycroft continued to stare at him, and then shook his head angrily, and walked with long strides into the house, to his brother, who was still being worked on by the paramedics. 

..............

Mycroft puffed his way up to the top of the house. The secret private place was now swarming with green clad paramedics and also a policeman. They all saw the set up with the bondage equipment and the desert re-creation setup. He hoped it wouldn't be in the tabloids by morning. He would need to make some phone calls.

He had to push through to see his brother. Sherlock lay on the stretcher, naked apart from the blanket from the ambulance. He looked quiet and shrunken. The wounds all over his body gave him a bizarre appearance. His face looked ghastly, and the head wounds, oh Dear God. 

Mycroft didn't know how he was going to explain this to their parents. They had liked John so much. Trusted him. And now....this. 

'I'm his elder brother', he explained to the medical team. 'I'll be travelling with him.' And he followed the stretcher downstairs out to the waiting ambulance. Pressing the buttons to call first Anthea, and then Lestrade as he did so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music inspiring this sad chapter is the completely miserable and wonderful...
> 
> Clothes of Sand  
> Nick Drake
> 
> If you've never heard of him, please do listen to this track....


	7. John. Sherlock. Mycroft.

John Watson was taken to a police cell. The door clanged shut, and he was left alone. 

Not for long. He was deemed a suicide risk. This meant his cell was even barer than normal, with only a bolted down bed frame and bucket toilet. No sheets, just a couple of blankets. No clothes other than a paper suit, his own clothes having been removed by the police for forensic examination. He was checked every fifteen minutes, day and night. 

It was a sensible decision. 

John Watson had no other intention at this moment other than to kill himself. The idea that he had not only failed to protect Sherlock from harm, but hurt him so badly, and that the cause was something that maybe could happen again, was so utterly devastating that he saw no point in carrying on. 

It was a very good job his gun was still in pieces back at Baker Street. That was hilarious, though. The gun in pieces, to make sure he didn't hurt Sherlock. That hadn't fucking worked, then, had it? 

He lay on the hard panel bed, and mainly spent his time sobbing. When he ran out of tears, he spent the rest of the long hours staring at the ceiling, planning ways to end his life. 

...............

At Barts hospital, Sherlocks wounds were being cleaned up. He had regained consciousness shortly after being admitted, but was now sedated, because he was attempting to get off the trolley and leave the hospital. He became hysterical. 

'John. Where is John. Where have you taken him? I need to see him. Please let me see him. 

JOHN! JOHN!!! Get me out of this fucking place. JOHN!!'

Violence followed as Sherlock tried to fight his way out of the room, out of the hospital. 

Mycroft dodged the fists and gave his consent for Sherlock to be forcibly restrained and tranquillised. It gave him little pleasure but there was clearly no alternative to allow the wounds to be cleaned and stitched. He was aware it was only putting off the inevitable confrontation, however. 

.........

Back at the police station, John had now been formally charged with committing Grievous Bodily Harm, the most serious assault charge available where the victim is still alive and an intent to kill isn't evident (which, if it was, would be attempted murder). 

His sentence was likely to be five to ten years in prison. With the level of injury and Mycroft's influence and the best prosecution lawyers in the land, it would probably be the upper end.

To get it reduced to the much less serious charge of 'wounding without intent', John was going to have to prove that he had committed the offence whilst sleeping, and had no knowledge of doing it. Which was true, and his documented history of PTSD would help. However, the fact of Sherlocks body showing signs of considerable numbers of other recent injuries, not self inflicted, plus the evidence of one Mycroft Holmes as to the 'abusive' nature of the couples relationship, would most certainly not help. 

John knew all this. It washed over him. Yes, he understood the charges. No, he didn't have anyone he wanted to call. No, he didn't want to call a lawyer. 

He was returned to his cell. The door slammed shut once again. 

He lay down again and wept for what he had done, for his helpless, beautiful Sherlock, and for their future he had destroyed in two minutes of madness. 

...............

At Barts, Sherlocks wounds were now all dealt with as best they could be. His broken nose was reset. His jaw would need an operation to wire it up. Several teeth would need replacement implants. 

The stab wounds had taken the most time to deal with. There were a total of thirty seven of them, ranging from small cuts to long deep slices. They had been photographed along with the facial injuries, by a police photographer, and each wound had been examined forensically. Thankfully not by Anderson. Though if Sherlock had died, it might have been Anderson. 

The deepest cuts were to the chest and side of the torso. All the bigger ones (fourteen) were stitched, including the three to the side and back of his head. The biggest wound, to the side of his chest, had ten stitches.

The most painful stab wounds were to the groin area. One small cut was even to his penis. Those were agony. He was given some pain relief gel to rub on them. The irony of rubbing this rather lube like stuff on his groin and genitalia for a purpose other than his normal obsession, was rather lost on him. The wounds and pain and his misery meant there was little chance of an unwanted erection now. 

He was given oral painkillers, too, but, as previously, his history of drug abuse meant nothing very effective was prescribed. It was probably his only regret about his drug use, the condemnation to a life of rubbish pain relief.

.................

Mycroft was sitting silently in the corner of the room, as Sherlock's full consciousness returned, and the needle-sharp pain rose like an evil wave washing over him. 

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. 

Sherlock broke the silence at last. His jaw made it painful to speak but he was determined.

.................

'Where is John?' His words sounded strange as he struggled to form them. 

Mycroft looked at him wearily. John. John. Always John. Even now. Even after - that. He looked away as he spoke.

'You know where John is, Sherlock. There is only one place he can be. He is in a police cell. He has been charged with GBH. He is on suicide watch. He is going to prison for ten years, Sherlock.'

Mycroft's words gripped Sherlock with a vice like pain that encased his whole body. He began to shake silently, and turned onto his side, away from Mycroft, in a wholly pointless attempt to disguise his tears. 

Did Mycroft take pleasure in the words? Sherlock wasn't sure. His perception skills were all over the place. He still felt woozy and groggy after the blows to the head and the resultant concussion. The sedative hadn't helped. 

Mycroft leaned forward.

'Why didn't you TELL me that you two were using that ridiculous set-up for sleeping in, and not just your pathetic sex role-plays? I could have told you it was a dangerous and stupid thing to do.'

Sherlock winced as he moved slightly, and lay back down flat. It wasn't much better. And his tears were now obvious. But given the humiliations of his private life being exposed to so many strangers last night, it hardly seemed to matter any more. Suicide watch. Ten years. Oh God, no. Please, no. 

'Because it didn't occur to us that it would be an issue, that it would make the dreams worse. If anything, I thought they might improve because John was so happy there when he went to sleep and when he woke.'

'But you thought it acceptable to keep a knife in the same room?'

'That was for the.....other stuff. The bondage. For emergencies. It was there before I had the desert installed. It was kept securely shut away, not easily accessible. Well...'

'Except last night it wasn't, was it Sherlock? John had it, didn't he, and he used it to stab you? Thirty seven times, Sherlock. Thirty. Seven. It is only by extraordinary luck he missed the major arteries. How then, brother, did he get hold of that knife in his sleep?'

'We....we. We were doing some things....'

' "Some things" presumably involving the eighteen whip lacerations and twenty three cane weals on your back, buttocks and thighs?'

'It didn't feel like that many. John didn't want to do that many. And he did say no, Mycroft, when...'

He stopped. 

'When what, Sherlock? What did you ask him to do, more than this appalling mess on your body, that he refused to do?'

'I......wanted him to cut me. With a.....a blade.....a razor blade. He wouldn't. We argued. I got quite upset, had a panic attack, and John got the knife out to cut the bondage restraints.'

Mycroft's face darkened. 

'Sherlock, I'm........I'm not sure what to say. 

I'm not sure how to help you, how to instil any control on your behaviour?

I said I would take John Watson away from you if you stepped over the line. But it's looking very much, as if you and John stepped over the line together, and as a result, John may be taken away from you for a very, very long time. And through none of my doing. You brought this on yourself, Sherlock. When will you ever learn?

I am going to speak with Mummy and Daddy about where we go from here. Whether some psychiatric care, residential, might be required for you. Whether you need to be admitted, for your own safety.'

Sherlocks eyes narrowed with fury. 

'Dont you dare, Mycroft.' 

His brother turned and stared at him.

'What do you mean, 'don't you dare', Sherlock? Little brother, I warned you. You ignored me and I was right, and now you have no cards left to play. None. 

Whatever happens on the psychiatric side, you will not be going back to Baker Street when you are discharged. You will be living at Eaton Square, where I can keep a close eye on you.'

'But Baker Street is my home. You can't stop me going there unless you have me sectioned. Though I wouldn't put that past you.'

'Don't be stupid Sherlock. You've been quite stupid enough already. Baker Street was bought FOR you. By the Trust. You are the beneficiary, so you get to live there. Because the Trust in its discretion allows it. The Trust owns Baker Street. Mrs Hudson, you : you are both the Trust's tenants. The fact you pay no rent doesn't alter that. If the Trustees think it wise that you not live at Baker Street, Sherlock, then you will not be living at Baker Street.' 

'By the Trust, you mean you?'

'Not at all. There are four other Trustees. All are very good, sound men and women, all with independent minds. With a lifetime of managing large funds in business and in public life. Of managing large groups of sometimes difficult people. All of whom have better things to do than to have to constantly make arrangements to pander to you. 

And all of whom are sick to the back teeth of your infantile inability to live a responsible adult life, instead of frittering the Trust assets away on drugs, sexual perversion and the fifteen stuffed marmosets you found in a market in Ulan Bator and spent two thousand pounds having shipped back to Baker Street. To quote just one recent example, Sherlock. That, rather than a lack of judgement or independence, is why the Trustees will follow my advice.'

Sherlock wriggled uncomfortably. The marmosets had seemed, charming, in the darkness of the market, and he might have been quite high when he bought them and came up with the scheme to bring them back? They were less charming in daylight. John had said they gave him the fucking creeps and they had been exiled to the basement of the house, in 221C; probably to give Mrs Hudson a fatal stroke if she ever took any prospective tenants down there and found them all in various poses grinning manically at her from the darkness in each of the rooms.

Mycroft sat back in his chair. 

'There is something else, Sherlock. Something which may influence which way all of this goes.

I need to discuss it more with Mummy before I talk to you about it. It's something she and I have been working on. I wasn't sure the time was right, but it may be necessary now. It may involve you directly now.'

'What? What have you been doing? How does it affect me? Why am I involved?'

Mycroft, noting that Sherlock was now asking questions rather than rejecting outright the idea of learning anything about the plan; smiled the smile of the man who holds all of the cards, and as he is about to play them, receives a call to say he has won the lottery, is shortly to be knighted and has won the World Penis of the Month competition (Champion of Champions) as well as the best Fruit Cake (no Nuts) at the WI.

'All in good time, Sherlock. Now, you need to recover. I will keep you updated on the penitentiary progress of your Doctor Watson.

I am placing two of my own guards on this room. Do not try to attack or bribe them. They are armed. Very loyal. And extremely pissed off at having their holidays cancelled to look after my pathetic little brother.'

Sherlock pouted.  
'You were nicer to me last time I was in hospital. Why are you being so vile now?'

'Because this time, Brother Mine, your woes are indirectly self-inflicted; and because I have quite frankly, reached the end of my tether with your destructive behaviour and lifestyle choices. And on the effect it is having on our rapidly ageing parents. 

I will see you very soon, Sherlock. 

Any trouble, and the medical staff or my men will have you restrained or I will have you sectioned. Take my advice. Lie low. Lick your wounds. And forget about Doctor Watson for the time being. 

Good day, dear Brother.'

....................

With that, the British Government left the room. Leaving a suffering detective to wonder why the hell, for once, he had no idea at all what mysterious plan Mycroft was working on. 

Then he thought of John. Not with blame. Never with blame, and not just because he loved John. Not because he was the victim of an abusive relationship.

Sherlock didn't blame John for what had happened for a second. In some ways, having seen the violence of John's nightmares before, he had been waiting for something like this. Not with the knife, it's true, but something like a beating. John had warned him of the risk. They accepted it could happen.

Mycroft was right about one thing though. They, and especially he, Sherlock, should have thought about the potential for making things worse with the desert set-up. And he should have realised that combining the controlled violence of the bondage den with the desert camp was a very poor choice. 

He thought of John in his police cell. He knew what those cells were like; the suicide watch ones. He'd been in there more than once: the endless hours with nothing to do, nothing to stare at but the walls, nothing to think about except the thoughts in your head telling you you were evil, or worthless, or ugly, or a failure, or unloved. 

But never with a GBH charge hanging over him for attacking his own lover. His own issues had been internal. His heart ached for John now. What was he thinking? What was he feeling? Did he think Sherlock blamed him? He wasn't allowed to visit John, even if Mycroft had sanctioned it (which he wouldn't); because Sherlock was the victim and only witness in a serious criminal case. 

Sherlocks own heart felt as though it was being squeezed to nothing. He turned painfully in the bed, to face the wall once more, and let the tears flow until he slept.


	8. A deal with the Devil? The Devil isn't so scheming.....

Sherlock saw little of Mycroft over the next few days, in fact not until the day of his release. 

He had been visited by Molly, who was embarrassed and didn't know what to say to him, as he obviously didn't share the details of exactly how he came by his injuries. He wondered if she retained anything of her former feelings for him, now she was loved-up with the good Inspector. He thought not, but that she definitely was thinking thoughts, about this not having been the outcome if he had chosen her back then. 

She brought him Dolly Mixtures, one of the better sweets from his food size phobia point of view, and hence a favourite; and also a rather alarming mangy looking taxidermy otter, which had been badly done and had an Elvis sneer, and which the medical staff immediately decided was a bacterial risk and banished. 

It was last seen under the long suffering Anthea's arm, being taken to who knows what fate at the hands of the British Government. It was a nice thought of Molly's though? Maybe it could join the marmosets downstairs, if it wasn't already in a bin somewhere. And she had made a blue knitted scarf for it. She hadn't been able to find a pattern for his Belstaff, though she'd bought the black felt and some red thread to do the buttonholes. Sherlock felt like crying. He'd done a lot of that, lately. He let her kiss him on the cheek, and blinked up at her as her pretty face crinkled up with worry. 

..............

He was also visited by Lestrade, who had been briefed much more fully by Mycroft, and was, of course, aware of Johns arrest and charge. This was a much more difficult encounter than the one with Molly. Sherlock felt how he had felt when he was twenty six, and Lestrade had scraped him up from the gutter for the third time, collapsed from yet another overdose, face down with vomit on his face, his soiled trousers and underpants round his ankles and bruises all up his body. 

Because Sherlock, well, Sherlock hadn't told John the complete story. 

Nearly, but not quite. The Oxford dealers weren't the only dealers he had prostituted himself to for drugs. There were a few others, in London. Just a few. Just when he was desperate. Each time he did it, each time he gave in, he'd felt a degree less human, and a degree more likely to do it again. He wondered why on earth John bothered to associate with him, as he remembered his weakness, the self loathing, the feelings when they looked at him like something under their shoe, even as they came inside his shivering skeletal frame. There was no Belstaff then. No Mrs Hudson. Just cravings and dirt and disgusting men with sweating faces and cruel natures.

The look of disappointment and pity on Greg's face back then, was the same as the look on it now. It made him shiver again.

He sidled up to the bed. Took Sherlocks hand and held it, turning it over, and back again, looking at his hand. 

'He doesn't want to look at my face', Sherlock thought. Of course Greg had to, in the end. Had to speak. But they didn't discuss anything personal. 'He's had it with me, thought Sherlock. He's given up trying. I don't blame him.'

Sherlock was right. Lestrade had reached his limit now. He didn't know how to help Sherlock. It was going to take a lot of persuasion from Mycroft, and a reminder that Greg was now partly in his employ, to persuade him to have any more to do with Sherlock, who he'd hoped had turned a final corner. Hoped not to visit in prison, or hospital, any more.

Lestrade told Sherlock that John was now on remand in Pentonville prison, awaiting a trial date. It probably wouldn't be for some months, given the number of medical and psychiatric reports that would be needed. The police would also be taking a statement from Sherlock now that he was well enough. 

Sherlock said they could do what they liked but he wasn't going to be making any statement. Lestrade sighed, and said that was up to him, but since John had confessed to causing all of the injuries; admitting this both at the scene, and in his police interviews under caution, it really wouldn't make much difference. The forensics also backed up the confessions.

'There are levels of violence that the State finds it very hard to accept that anyone invites or consents to, Sherlock.'

'I didn't consent to it, the beating and the stabbing. Only the other stuff. But he didn't know he was doing it. He wasn't conscious. He wasn't responsible for his actions. John's unwell. That's already been recognised. It's why he has a therapist. Not a criminal.'

'Yeah, well, they'll decide that. If he decides to plead diminished responsibility. That's if his legal team don't succeed in getting the charge reduced pre-trial.'

'Have you seen him, Greg?' 

'No. He's said he doesn't want any visitors. He's only seen the court appointed defence lawyer. But I'll see him from a distance at the court hearing tomorrow. It's just a formality. Is there anything you would like me to tell him? I won't be able to speak to him but I can probably get a message through.

Sherlock was silent for long moments. Then, looking away from Greg, he barked 'Pen and paper'. 

'Got'

'Right.' Sherlock's voice dropped to a whisper.

'Tell him......' There was a choking noise. Greg looked up, and then swiftly looked down again, to give Sherlock some privacy and dignity. He had little enough of that left, after the events of last night.

Sherlock swallowed hard, and noisily.

......Tell him that the stuffed Bee in our bed misses him. Tell him that there's no milk in the fridge so I need him to get some. Not the skimmed stuff, that's just white water. Tell him...tell him unless he comes home I'm going to put the penis xylophone back in the food fridge?

Tell him I love him and won't live without him and he is to return to me.'

Tell him that, Greg.

Greg wrote it down. He tried to keep it together as he did so.

It was only after he left the hospital that he realised Sherlock had used his correct first name throughout his visit.

 

..............

 

The day Sherlock Holmes was released from hospital, having been interviewed by the police ('No comment' throughout, other than to state that 'John Watson was innocent of any conscious criminal act and should be released immediately'), Mycroft came in person to collect him. 

He was being taken to Eaton Square. 

When they got there, and Sherlock limped towards the door, following his brother, Sherlock was surprised to see Mycroft knock at the door instead of using his key. 

He raised an eyebrow in enquiry. Which he knew Mycroft must have known he would. 

'Mummy is here. She's staying downstairs, in the suite you used when you were last nearly bumped off. Only.....of course last time, it was at the hands of a foe, not a lover.' 

Mycroft sniffed, and continued.

'Try to be nice to her. You are in Wellington. First on the left at the top of the stairs. It has a nice view over the gardens. And a lovely deep bathtub in the ensuite. You will be comfortable there.'

'Myc, why is Mummy here?'

'To see you, her beloved youngest son, now you are out of hospital, of course.' Mycroft headed into the house, turning back to add 'And also so that we can talk to you about the project I mentioned.'

'Im not going to Holmes Manor. If the project involves that place, I'm out now.' 

Sherlock hadn't returned to the family home since going up to Oxford at the age of seventeen. The images and smells and sounds of the place reminded him of the abuse he suffered there as a child. 

'No. You won't be required to have any dealings with the Manor. Come on in and get unpacked. Mrs G will have coffee and cake ready when you are washed and ready.'

................

John Watson had appeared in court. It was a preliminary hearing and he was required only to confirm his name and address and that he understood the charges. 

Greg Lestrade was at the hearing. As were a lot of the press. Mycroft had done his best to suppress the sordid details, and so only the bare facts were outlined, though that wouldn't be the case at a full trial. 

Greg stared as John was brought into the courtroom, and guided to the dock. He was dressed in a terrible pull on tracksuit, presumably thought to represent the lowest value as a suicide aid. 

He looked, frankly, appalling. Not in an active way. Not in an angry, fighting way. But in the way that people who have witnessed terrible things look. Empty, like a shell. Smaller. Frailer. Older. Like they might just crack and shatter at the slightest noise or movement. That is how John Watson, former soldier, former doctor, looked to Greg. 

He rubbed his head in his hands. He'd promised Sherlock he would come, and report back, but now really wasn't sure what he was going to say. John's voice, when it came to confirming the facts, was barely more than a whisper. Greg couldn't watch.

When he finally looked up, the frail shuffling figure was about to be taken back to the holding cells, then onwards back to Pentonville. Greg wondered how easy a time John was having, with his and Sherlocks celebrity, and then the publicity about their gay relationship. Prison wasn't always the best place to be a bisexual man with a celebrity boyfriend, especially not when you are charged with battering them.

As he left, Johns gaze met Greg's, and he nodded slightly at him. Then shuffled away, grey and empty. 

Greg passed on Sherlock's message on a piece of paper to the prison staff at Pentonville. Because of who he was, they read it and then let him deliver it to John himself. John refused to let him in the cell. So Greg had to post the note through the little hatch in the door, and leave again. 

When John read the note, he wept for hours. Howled, until the warders told him to cut it.

..................

Back in the restrained luxury and comfort of the Eaton Square drawing room, Mummy Holmes was closely regarding her youngest son, who was cutting a piece of gingerbread into (so far) twenty eight tiny pieces, not then eating any of them, just absently squashing each piece in turn with his knife. And failing to meet her piercing gaze. He hadn't eaten since the events of the previous night and had no plans to do do for the foreseeable future.

'Sherlock. Your father, and I, we just.....just want to understand. How things came to this?

Mycroft has had to tell us some things that I'm sure you'd rather he didn't, about your lifestyle, and the unusual nature of parts of the relationship you have with John, and darling, I do try not to be judgemental but...'

She was interrupted. 

'I am not discussing any aspect of my relationship, practices, life, existence with John Watson with any of you. It is none of your business. It is not for you to judge. The person who makes me whole, who makes me want to continue to breathe, who makes my life worth living, is in a prison cell, probably being jumped by every scumbag in the place, facing a decade in prison. Just because I was too stupid to realise that a desert film set might just make him think his dreams were real. That's all he's guilty of. Nothing else.'

His mother tried again. 

'It's not just that, Sherlock, is it; though I do honestly wonder if you two can live safely together, if things like this can go on?

It's the whole nature of the practices. Not all of the wounds John Watson gave you were inflicted in a dream, were they? Some of them you asked him to inflict, and he did? Isn't that right?'

Sherlock looked away.

'I really can't and won't discuss this, Mummy. Not at all. Not with you. I have informed Mycroft of how the relationship works in that respect and I'm sure he can communicate it adequately....'

'But Sherlock, my....Sherlock. How can you want that? After everything else you went through......'

'This subject is closed, Mummy. If there's nothing else you want to discuss, please may I return to my prison cell upstairs now?' He stood.

A voice came from the doorway. Mycroft.

'Not quite finished, I'm afraid, Sherlock. We have a proposition for you. Sit down.'

Sherlock sat. Glowering. 

Mrs Holmes and Mycroft sat in comfortable armchairs. Sherlock sat on a less comfortable chair. He'd chosen it for a quick getaway but that was clearly to be denied him. 

Mycroft spoke. 

'Sherlock. I have a proposition for you which, if you agree to it, will result in the release from custody of John Hamish Watson and the dropping of all charges against him. 

In addition you will be permitted to return to Baker Street, and your access to Trust funds will not be withdrawn. There will be no restriction on your association with John Watson, on the condition that you make sensible arrangements to ensure that this week's fiasco does not recur. The 'desert' is to be removed (actually that is already happening as we speak, which I doubt will raise any objections). 

John Watson and yourself are both, BOTH, Sherlock, to commit to at least twelve months of psychological counselling and to actively engage with it.'

Sherlock went pale. He didn't doubt Mycroft's power to direct the course of British justice in John's case, but all his instincts and knowledge had led him to think that this; John's release and allowing them to live together, would be the last thing Mycroft would consider? Both for Sherlock's protection and because of Mycroft's ego trip he fulfilled by looking after Sherlock. 

Why was he doing this? What was so big a stick that it warranted a carrot of this magnitude to be dangled at him? 

Fear lodged in his gut. He had no idea what was coming next, but he knew it would be horrendous. 

It was. 

................

Mycroft continued on. 

You will be wondering what is required, or should I say, requested of you in return, little brother. I shall tell you. 

Our parents, Sherlock, are ageing now. Our family is a very old and distinguished one, with a lineage of over eight hundred years in this country, and more before the Norman Conquest in Northern France. They have lived at Holmes Manor since the fourteenth century, weathering the Reformation and the Civil War, and latterly the supertaxes of the 1970s. 

They have married into Royalty in this country and others, become eminent scientists, artists and composers, and now play a minor role in the British Government.'

Sherlock, of course, knew all this. But for once, he was silent, and Mycroft was able to continue unhindered and uninterrupted. 

'All this has continued unbroken, for well over six hundred years, until now. Now, we have a situation, a regrettable situation, Sherlock, with two Holmes men, 'we happy twa'; neither of which has produced an heir, male or female, to the family history, lands and titles, and neither of whom looks like doing so.

It is Mummy and Daddy's only remaining wish, that there should be an Holmes heir; that the Holmes name and everything that goes with it should be continued, and not die out with our passing.'

So that was it, thought Sherlock. Brood mare. How marvellous. Breed from him in the hope of something better THAN him.

He spoke now. 

'I don't see why this involves me, Mycroft, I'm clearly an prize-winning poof, so why aren't you out there doing the good deed, and being the dutiful elder son, leaving me free to create myself tiny and revealing feather-clad costumes for Gay Pride?'

Mycroft was in theory boxed into a corner. He had no wish to discuss his own, complicated tastes. However another factor meant he didn't need to. 

'You will remember, Sherlock, that before your charmingly dramatic faked suicide several years ago; we both, at Mummy and Daddy's request, provided semen samples to be stored, to be used in the event we were both killed in the operations to take out Moriartys network?'

Sherlock sighed.

'Yes. Only to be used in the event of our joint deaths, Mycroft. That was the agreement.'

Sherlock had not told anyone about this aspect of the preparations of operation Lazarus. He'd felt he owed his parents at least that consolation, if his run-ins with Moriarty got both their sons killed. He couldn't tell John anything at the time, of course. And afterwards, well, there had never seemed the right moment. Especially not after the Rebecca business.....Babies, the taboo subject.

'Indeed so. Well, in light of our parents request, those 'submissions' have recently been tested.'

'And?'

'And, dear brother. The testing has highlighted our issue. My sample was, how shall I put it? Useless? Unable to break the skin on a bowl of custard? In summary, pretty much completely infertile, to the point that even the latest techniques will not assist us.'

Sherlock did feel a wave of deep compassion towards his brother now. Saying this must be very hard, he knew. He bit his lip, and looked up at Mycroft, and said softly, 'I'm so sorry, Myc.' 

'Yes, well, it is unfortunate given my role as the elder brother and head of our generation of the family. Plus of course my lack of a background of drug addiction, psychiatric committal and prostitution, Sherlock. And it may, it is thought, be a result of an operation I undertook some years back involving the recovery of some missing material, some radioactive material. But, it is really not at all important, I only mention it to explain why we are now looking to you, little brother. Why we must look to you.' 

'Because my sample was....?'

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

'Really, Sherlock. You do like to show off. The Michael Phelps of the sperm world, yes, Sherlock. You can be proud of your swimmers. In fact, so good, it's a bit of a waste you being...how you are.'

'Gay, you mean?'

'Well, yes, if only from the reproductive perspective.'

Mycroft, aware he was digging a hole, continued. He spoke fast as if he might be able to get the plan past Sherlock without him noticing somehow.

The proposition is, then; that in return for the actions I specified above in relation to you and to John Watson, the sperm sample you have provided (plus new ones if needed), will be used to create a baby to be the heir for our family. 

In a nutshell, that's it.'

Mycroft sat back, clasping Mrs Holmes hand. She looked very nervous. 

.................

Sherlock was floored by the suggestion. He went for sarcasm to allow his brain to catch up.

'Thats not quite it, is it though, Mycroft? You've only got half a nut in this hypothetical nutshell of yours? 

I believe you need some eggs to produce babies. I know I preferred chemistry to biology but I'm pretty sure thats quite the thing, baby making wise?'

Mycroft cleared his throat and shuffled his buttocks slightly. 

That's right, thought Sherlock sourly. You get your fat bum cheeks comfy, while you pimp out your brothers semen for the sake of family pride. Then you can go back to your beloved cake.

Mycroft glared. Maybe he can read my thoughts, Sherlock mused. Good. I hope he can.

'There will be two women involved in this business. 

One will provide the eggs, thus being the genetic mother of the child. It is therefore been of paramount importance that this person be of high intelligence, physical attractiveness, utter loyalty to the Holmes family, and yet have a complete and long demonstrated disinterest in the whole idea of raising a child, while finding the idea of their child walking around an attractive one.'

Sherlock interrupted.

'So who on earth have you found, who meets all that?'

A small pause, and a clearing of the throat from Mycroft. Sherlocks eyes narrowed.

'Anthea.'

Sherlock did a double take, stood up, paced around the room, and sat down again. 

Anthea was undoubtedly loyal, beautiful and intelligent. She also looked a little like him in her colouring and tall stature. So people had said. The child would certainly look like a Holmes, no doubt about that. 

He wondered again about her exact relationship with Mycroft, for her to agree to this? The procedure of harvesting the eggs wasn't, he understood, terribly pleasant due to the need to stimulate the ovaries to produce more eggs than normal. Unless...oh no....?

'We would be doing this IVF style, yes? I wouldn't need to.....Anthea and I wouldn't need to...'

Don't worry, Sherlock. God forbid we should inflict upon you the horrors of actual sexual intercourse with an actual real woman? A beautiful witty and intelligent woman. The woman, in fact, who led the raid that saved your life in the Barbican, and the woman who shot Moran when your lover fluffed it being too busy babbling over your corpse and bleeding out over you into a bathtub. How terrible!

No, Anthea is agreeable to the procedures. You need not copulate, Sherlock. And you won't have to refer to her as the parent, she doesn't want any active involvement at all. She will get an annual photo, via me, and that is all she desires in way of contact and information.'

'So, this other woman, the surrogate mother. The one who does all the work. Why does she want to do this?'

'We have a former but still retained agent. A very good one. She and her husband experienced fertility issues, on his side, and it took her a long time to get pregnant because of this. She now has her full family of three healthy children, two boys and a girl, but she loved being pregnant, and she also has ambitious plans to move to a small farm for the kids to grow up there. At the moment they live in a small semi-detached house in Ealing, and no prospect of being able to make the leap. That's not what she wants for them. 

The money she will be paid : and yes I know only expenses are legally allowable in the UK, but let's assume, shall we brother dear, that the British Governments minor members can work round that : the money she will be paid, will enable all that to happen for her and her family. By the way, she has an excellent health record and is a prize winning fell runner, as well as competing on horseback in endurance events.

But there's one more thing, which is perhaps her greatest motivation. This lady - let her be called Ms X - lost her only sibling, her beloved younger brother, to a drug overdose three years ago. He was brilliant, handsome, adored by her, and he died. That is the final reason why she is doing this for me, for us, for him. She regretted that he never had a son or daughter: that a part of him, directly of him, couldn't live on. She has been involved at the edges of some of the operations to scrape you up, and she can see the pattern repeating. She's keen to help history take a different course this time.'

So that is the lineup, Sherlock.'

Sherlock looked at him. 

'This all sounds like there's a laid down process for it. Like it's been done before. Maybe not recently, maybe not with the aid of all the IVF and science, but arranging for heirs? Am I right?'

'That information is classified, Sherlock, however I can say it is true that we know what we are doing and are not strangers to the practicalities.'

Mummy Holmes intervened, her age making her tongue a little looser than her son's. Sherlock had forgotten she was there.

'You know, if it wasn't for people like Mycroft, arranging things, Sherlock, making sure things run smoothly in such matters, we wouldn't have the Royal Family we have now?'

Sherlock stared at her. 

'You mean....'

'Well not every Monarch or their consort has impeccable fertility, darling. That wouldn't be statistically very likely, would it?

Of course in those days it did require what now would be called 'the Turkey baster' method, or else, in extremis, actual intercourse between the chosen mate and the fertile Royal party; but it was effective at ensuring not only continuity of succession but that the 'right' sort of Royal stays on the throne. And of course, before recent legal changes, making sure there was a male heir.

It's been happening for centuries, darling. No sense in allowing difficulties, is there, when there's a simple solution?'

Sherlock knew where Mycroft got his outlook on the world from. Chess game, the whole damn thing. 

'Yes very good, thank you, Mummy', said Mycroft, conscious that everyone in the room could be sent to the Tower for what she had just revealed.....

'Back to the business in hand. 

The decision we will need from you, not now, but soon, Sherlock, is whether you will agree to the plan.....?

...............

 

Sherlocks mind was racing but one thing stood out. 

It was all very well (or not very well) creating a life, but what of when the baby was born? What happened to the baby? Anthea didn't want it, and neither did the surrogate mother? 

He asked that question.

Mycroft regarded him steadily. 

'There are two options. 

Either, the child is brought up by Mummy and Daddy, at Holmes Manor, and they are very willing and able to do this, and will have plenty of help from nannies and other staff. The baby will want for nothing and will be spoiled and adored.

Or, you, Sherlock, you look after your child and bring it up. 

The choice is entirely yours, and free to make.'

...............

Sherlock felt sick.

Now he turned on Mycroft.

'Let me get this right? I have to choose between my child being brought up at Holmes Manor, the place I can't even step foot in, can't even go within ten miles of because it STILL SMELLS of MY RAPIST?

Or, I have to bring a baby to Baker Street to live with me and my psychologically traumatised boyfriend, whose sole experience of having babies to date has meant he had to GIVE up his JOB because he now can't be in the same FUCKING ROOM as them?' 

He was shouting now, clutching at his hair, at his head, the stitched and bare patches still evident. His jaw had been wired now but he was still a sight. No one called him out on his language. No one said anything at all.

The godawful clawing feeling of being trapped between two impossibly, no, three impossibly awful choices, rose in his throat. 

> John in prison for a decade  
Or  
> A child he never saw, brought up somewhere he could never visit. John might still leave him.  
Or  
> Bringing a child into his and Johns lives, bringing chaos, and misery for John, and utter disruption to his lifestyle and work. John might leave him. 

Mycroft and Mummy Holmes expected there to be an outburst of anger or a silent and sulky exit from the the drawing room. There was none of that. 

Instead Sherlock got up, shaking, and went and stood at the front window, looking out at the smart people walking to and fro along the Square, and the rich and privileged small children playing in the Square's private gardens with nannies watching them. 

Nannies who probably had children of their own back in their home country who they saw once a year; but whose extended family were entirely supported by the wages of their noble sacrifice to come and take care of the children of another. What a lonely life they had, the children and the nannies, and the nannies children. 

He couldn't do that to his own child. But his life? John's? Their life together?

He looked out on all this, and it was all too much, and his brain was crashing, and he suddenly crumpled into a crouched heap on the ground. He wasn't unconscious, but almost. 

'It was too soon', said Mummy Holmes. 'Ring the bell, Mycroft. Poor boy. He needs to be in bed. This can wait.'


	9. Another crisis. And a decision

Late in the afternoon, once he saw both the lunch and tea trays return from Sherlock's room untouched, and Mrs Holmes had left for a social engagement, Mycroft considered going upstairs, but decided to leave it a little longer. His brother had much to consider, and needed space. He thought that would be the right thing to do. Which was Mycrofts forte: Doing the Right Thing.

It was only when Mrs G the housekeeper, rushed in at about five to tell him there was "coloured water" pouring through the light fitting in the dining room, directly below the Wellington Room's bathroom, that he realised this had been a huge mistake. 

He quickly switched off the electricity at the junction box in the boiler room, to stop the water causing electrocution to anyone, and ran upstairs, into the Wellington bedroom. No sign of his brother, and no human sounds, but he could hear running water in the bathroom. He swore, and tried to open the bathroom door. It was locked. And very solid. Queen Anne period original oak. Too bad. It was going.

He ran downstairs again; and out the back door, into the gardeners small shed, where he found a small axe, used for the larger trees when their branches became unstable. Seizing it, he ran back into the house and up the stairs like a madman. 

Back in the room, he raised the axe and swung it hard on the bathroom door lock. He realised quickly that aiming at the lock wouldn't work, so tried instead to smash around it. After five or six heavy blows, powered by adrenalin and desperation, the lock gave way, and what was left of the door opened. 

............

Sherlock was lying naked in the bathtub, face up. There was a new head wound, to add to the many on his body: this one presumably self inflicted on the side of the cast iron bath. His head was almost underwater. The water flowing over the sides of the bath was red with blood, and Mycroft could see both wrists were cut....., the razor blade had dropped to the floor, like a red petal from a flower. Blood was flowing in a stream.

He wasn't sure if his brother was alive. Pulling out his phone, he called for an ambulance: then turning off the water he went to the medicine cabinet, the one he'd omitted to empty, and found bandages. He noticed that all the painkillers were missing, along with the packet of razor blades. Cursing himself, he went back to Sherlocks prone figure.

Still breathing, just. Pulse very weak.

He tried to move Sherlocks arms as little as possible, while he got the bandages tightly round his wrists. Then, once the bleeding was somewhat stemmed, he dragged his brother out of the bathtub, sitting exhausted back against the wall with Sherlock propped between his legs in front of him. 

John Watson had been put on suicide watch. They had forgotten about Sherlock Holmes. 

..............

Once again waking up in some sort of Earthling hospital, instead of remaining in a dreamless neverending sleep without care or disturbance as he had hoped, Sherlock was aware that, this time, he seemed to have been given the delicious and normally banned narcotic painkillers. He curled his toes in pleasure, as the familiar sensations of morphine wound their way around his body. Then he dropped off to sleep again.

It was a day before he had any visitors. In that time he was aware of several things through a fog of drugs. He was being sedated. He was being fed through a tube in his nose, no doubt due to his ongoing refusal to eat. He was clearly intended to stay here for some time, as there was a catheter in place. His room had barred windows. The nurses didn't look like NHS ones, nor even normal private hospital ones. There were several guards on the door, but they looked more serious than the previous ones, and more heavily armed.

One conclusion. This was a government facility, and possibly a psychiatric one.

Mycroft arrived about three in the afternoon, the day after Sherlock had been admitted. He had discussed with Mummy the best course of action, but in the end it had been agreed that while he wouldn't be formally sectioned, Sherlock should be held at a secure psychiatric facility under Mycroft's control until his condition was stabilised. And until he had given his answer, to the project proposal. His suicide attempt made that more urgent. 

Although it hadn't been discussed with Sherlock, his continuing and apparently increasingly risky behaviour over the past few years, while making him less than ideal as parent material, also made it more urgent that if they were to proceed with the project, they should do it soon. A suicide attempt meant they should do it even sooner.

Put bluntly, a dead Sherlock wouldn't be able to provide any more genetic material in the form of semen, should the original samples not prove effective. And part of both Mycroft and Mummy Holmes felt that, like Alicia (not her real name) the surrogate, if they were going to lose their beloved boy in an untimely way, they wanted part of him to live on. 

.............

It was with those thoughts in mind that Mycroft entered the room. 

It was becoming depressingly familiar, this, he thought. Just like in the worst times. At least now he's trying to do himself in at home, and not high in an alleyway with his boxers round his ankles from whatever dealer he's been fucked by. 

Sherlock was staring at the ceiling. His wrists were swaddled in thick bandages. Painkillers via IV. Mycroft had given the go ahead for these. He knew the addiction risks but they seemed to matter less given the psychological situation, and anything that made Sherlock more comfortable was now the priority. 

'Anthea's coming over. She'll be here shortly. She's going to talk with you.'

There was no reaction, just a pale chest breathing, and sea coloured eyes staring at the ceiling. 

Mycroft tried again. 

'There's another thing. Later on tonight. We're arranging for John to come. Here. To see you. So that you may discuss the proposal with him, if you wish.' 

Sherlock looked at him, wide eyed.

'John is coming?'

'Yes. As this is classed as a secure government facility, it has been possible. We are taking a risk, however, trying to keep it away from those who might challenge the evidence in the case, if it's shown there has been collusion between the victim and the accused.'

Sherlock's mind went into a spin. He shook his head to try to focus.

'Mycroft, I have a question. What if John manages to get his charges reduced to wounding without intent? He could well get that. Then he would be out in a couple of years, maybe less. Your plan might not be so attractive? Have you thought of that?'

'Of course I have, Sherlock. I'm good at what I do. You know that.

If you decline our plan, and Johns case goes to court, I can guarantee not only that it will not be downgraded to wounding without intent, but also that evidence relating to the murder of a certain unarmed London cab driver will mysteriously resurface. It won't only be your charges he'll be facing, Sherlock, it will be a murder charge.'

Sherlock paled. 

'You wouldn't, you couldn't.'

'Try me, Sherlock. Try me.'

Sherlock threw in one last blow, devoid as he was now of any more weapons in his arsenal. 

'Of course, Mycroft, none of this would be necessary if Sherry were still alive. If you hadn't done....what you did. Sherry could have done this, had the heir, been the hero saving the day. Sherry was straight as a die, you could tell that, I wouldn't have to. If you hadn't....'

At the mention of this name, Mycroft looked at Sherlock with undisguised and naked fury. 

He walked up to Sherlock, eyes blazing, and slapped him hard across his still injured face. And then again. The ring on Mycrofts hand left a cut on his cheek, bleeding and stinging. And brought tears to Sherlock's eyes.

'Never EVER mention that name again to me, Sherlock. Ever. I will not warn you again. If you ever say that name again, you WILL follow him.'

Sherlock looked down. Feeling ashamed. He knew he had done the unthinkable, mentioning Sherrinford. It was a mistake. He didn't want to face the same fate as Sherry had. 

With that, Mycroft turned on his heel, and left the room, leaving the door ajar. 

Sherlock realised why when Anthea-not-Anthea slipped in. Christ. He was getting the whole works today. And they wondered why he wanted to end it all?

.....................

Anthea smiled coolly at him and sat down on the chair next to the bed, smoothing down her skirt and raising a perfectly shaped dark eyebrow at him. 

Sherlock stared back at her, trying to puzzle her out. The eyebrow just raised higher.

'Why?'

Sherlock asked the question in one word, not needing to add anything.

'For Mycroft, Sherlock.'

'Do elaborate? This is to be my baby, not Mycrofts?'

'You know the reasons for that, Sherlock. Don't be cruel. 

I started working for Mycroft over ten years ago, when I was just eighteen. I only caught the tail end of your worst excesses, well worst until the last year, anyway. Even so, I have watched Mycroft eaten away again and again and again, by trying to watch your back, scrape you up, heal you, mend you. 

I've seen him hit walls with his fist so hard they bled for hours. Seen him walk out in the middle of meetings with foreign premiers, because little brother had crashed and burned again. Seen him more times than you can imagine, have to try to work out the words to explain to the parents that adore you both, that you were high on smack, or renting yourself out for a fix, or in cardiac arrest from an overdose, or had sold their Landseer painting of the Sussex spaniel in order to buy drugs. Yes, they know that wasn't a random burglary, Sherlock. Don't treat them like fools.

He is your brother. He loves you. And you treat him like a piece of shit, and I'm fed up of it.'

Sherlock intervened. If this was meant to cheer up a suicidal patient, she had an odd way of phrasing it. But he did admire her nerve. She was very beautiful too. John would like her, he thought, then bit his lip at the thought of John. 

'Given that charming character assessment, then, why on earth do you want to make babies with me, dear lady?' 

'Because I knew Mycroft was looking at the idea. Because I knew he would need someone to be the genetic parent. Because I saw the devastation the tests showing he was infertile were. Because I could. 

And because, Sherlock, unless you make some changes to your outlook and lifestyle, you may not be around too much longer. Your luck will run out. And your death would devastate Mycroft. And if that happens, I want him to have the consolation of this child. Part of you. Part of me. A child he can be uncle to, and love. A child that I hope, will possess all of your remarkable qualities but without the flaws. 

Mycroft deserves better than you for a brother, Sherlock. Your parents deserve better than you for a son. But they are stuck with you, and have suffered for it. Don't you think you owe them this, for all the suffering you've brought them over the years?'

Sherlock stiffened. 

'I didn't ask for what happened to me to happen.'

He didn't specify, but knew Anthea was aware now of the detail. 

'No, you didn't, Sherlock. No one thinks that, except I suspect you, in a little part of your brain that won't let you escape from the past. A wrong part, Sherlock. A destructive part. And I don't expect it's something you will ever fully put behind you. But you need to stop being so selfish, and destroying everyone around you. Do something positive. Have this baby. Love it. Persuade John Watson that he can bear to love it too. Make your brother proud. Appreciate what he does for you. Make your parents cry with tears of joy and pride, not cry with their terror of finding you in the morgue. 

That's all I came to say.'

Anthea stood up, leaned down, and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. As she left, she turned and smiled. 

'You know, I think we are going to have an absolutely beautiful child.' 

And left. 

...............

John Watson hadn't been told about the proposed visit to the secure hospital. He was therefore shocked when four warders turned up with some slightly less heinous clothes for him and told him to dress. And even more so when he was then taken from the cell and driven an hour and half out of London, up into leafy Buckinghamshire. 

'Where am I going?'

'Not at liberty to divulge that, I'm afraid', said the beefcake next to him, handcuffed to John. 

'Okay'. 

They arrived at a low white building with a lot of security, including armed men, and a lot of barred windows. John was led into the foyer, and was then blindfolded. He was led down numerous corridors, some probably more than once, spun round several times and then down more corridors. Finally, they stopped, and the blindfold was removed. 

'You have one hour. Then we leave to return to Pentonville. We will be outside the door.'

John was none the wiser. 

He opened the door and walked slowly and stoopingly into the room.

And saw Sherlock. Sherlock with bandaged wrists. John had seen bandages like that, in places like that, before. He'd done them himself. Quite a few times. It hadn't always worked. They hadn't always lived. Sometimes then. Sometimes later, on another attempt. 

He took in the numerous stitched wounds, the smashed up face. 

A face that didn't look at him with hate but instead looked so full of emotion it was about to burst out of the owners rib cage. A face that looked at the shell of John Watson, and willed it to come to life.

John ran forward and clutched at Sherlock. At his hands, his poor face, his poor body. He held him so tight Sherlock could barely breathe. They kissed, long hungry kisses, ignoring the nasal tube, ignoring the IV line, all of it. They breathed each other in. 

John took Sherlock's hands and whispered

'Why did you try to kill yourself? Why? And why did you do it alone? We agreed, Sherlock. If it's too much to bear, we go together? You know that. We agreed, you git. Why were you doing it alone?'

Sherlock held him. 

'Felt trapped. You'll see why when I tell you what I'm about to. I couldn't see a good way out. I still don't, but I'm probably becoming more resigned to it. Though that might just be the drugs.'

John didn't understand what he meant, but held him tighter anyway.

At last Sherlock broke the spell.

'John. We don't have much time. Sit.'

John sat. 

................

Telling John about the Holmes baby project, about how it was the price they had to pay for John going free; about how if they didn't go ahead, he was likely to also be charged in relation to the cabbies death, was possibly one of the most painful moments of Sherlock Holmes life. 

He started by outlining that there was a way John could go free, that Mycroft could engineer it. 

Johns hollow face took on the first life and hope, since he had been put into the police car that hideous night. 

His expression, though, darkened again when Sherlock outlined the cost of his freedom. A look of deep pain shot across it.

'A baby. Oh Christ, Sherlock, you know how it is for me?

It's going to be hard enough trying to trust myself to be in the same building as you, let alone working out how for us to live together without me endangering your life again, but to add in a baby? 

Don't they think that might tip one or both of us over the edge?' 

'I think', Sherlock said reflectively, and in That neutral tone that John had come to recognise and which made his skin crawl because it was Sherlock in his shell, rejecting the world: 'I think, that they have decided, because of recent events, that we are both, and especially me, ultimately expendable in the grand Holmes scheme, provided this baby is born. Not in a nasty way, but in a 'we've given up' kind of way. They want to make sure they have a better, more stable version of me to carry on the family name before I manage to do myself in, one way or another. And Mycroft can't oblige because of the fertility issues.'

'That's terrible! And weird. And wrong.'

'Is it? I've been thinking about it, and I'm not sure I blame them. In fact, it's possible they should have done it earlier, given up on me. I'd probably be dead of course. But maybe that's the way it ends?'

John looked at the bandages on Sherlock's wrists. 

'Nope. That's not the way it ends. And I know it's the height of irony, coming from me, who nearly put you in a grave, but that's not the way it will end for you, Sherlock.'

..............

The room was quiet. John was thinking. 

................

Sherlock knew better than to interrupt. John rarely had long periods of introspection and deep thought, and when he did, it invariably ended with a firm decision and an iron will to carry it through. 

So Sherlock Holmes, excitable and voluble, manic and energetic; sat quietly and patiently and regarded the twelve clothbound volumes of the 'New Book of Knowledge' on his bookshelves.

John was determining their future history. This small man, this damaged, this angry and flawed man (This perfect man, this beautiful man, this adored and revered and worshipped man), was about to alter their history.

John sat back now, at last, and regarded Sherlock for a long time. 

Eventually, he sat up again. Looking as if he had set something straight in his head. But he surprised Sherlock by going off at a tangent from their discussion, at least initially.

'Sherlock, if we do this; and I'm not sure about it, but even if we don't, actually; we need to make some big changes. 

I dont think I can do the beatings anymore, any of it, except maybe with a bare hand. I'm fine with the bondage and the blindfold and all, I just don't want to hit you any more. 

I'm sorry.'

Sherlock bowed his head.  
'Don't be. It would be unfair of me to ask you. 

Mycroft has spoken to some friends. Apparently there are professionals who do that sort of thing, know what they are doing more than I. I'm going to try to live without it at all, but if I do really struggle, and need it, he's going to arrange for them to do it, not at 221B, and under Mycrofts rules.'

John really wasn't at all sure he wanted Mycroft getting involved on rules and levels of corporal punishment meted out by his 'friends' to Sherlock, given what John now knew about Mycroft's feelings for his brother; ones that extraordinarily, Sherlock didn't seem to be aware of. Uhhhh. How to word this...?

'Um. Do you not think Mycroft is a bit too close to things. A bit too invested, to be doing that?' It was the only way John could think of to phrase it.

Sherlock smiled weakly at him.

'You mean, John, though you put it so delightfully delicately, does the fact that my brother has an occasional wank to thoughts of my delicious man-flesh, mean I don't want him involved? The answer is "No, I'm fine with it." 

Mycroft knows where the line is. His life is a study in drawing lines and not crossing them. And he knows I don't lust for him. So it's all fine.'

John gasped. 'You know? About Mycroft?'

'Of course I know. I knew when I was fifteen, and I hid behind the curtain and saw him masturbating on his bed with a holiday photo of me on the beach, and moaning my name as he came all over it. Doesn't really take a genius... He didn't see me, by the way. He has no idea that I know.'

Wow. John was astounded. This family.....

'And it doesn't bother you?' 

'Why should it? He's a man. I'm a man. He sees a lot of my body when I get myself into my various scrapes, though you would think that would kill his ardour given the state I've generally been in. He seems to think I possess some aesthetic qualities. I imagine he sees me as some tragic character in one of those ghastly poems he reads, expiring from consumption on a sofa while coughing blood into a handkerchief. I'm also fairly sure he hates himself for the dreams he has. Whereas actually he should be proud of the fact that he, unlike Lang, does not assume he has the right to act them out. 

Really, John, I've had greater things to worry about in my life, than the fact my elder brother sexually fantisises about me.

Anyway, I don't know, of course, since we only have the chain of events we have, but I think it's also a manifestation of the damage wrought on him, as well as me. Not that Lang touched him, of course, but for someone in their late teens to go off to Uni leaving an adoring little brother behind; and then to come back and have to see them as an eleven year old as a sexual being, a lot more worldly than they are themselves, however forced and non consensual that experience is, must be completely unsettling and disorientating. It wasn't only me that suffered long term effects.'

'Oh. Ok then. Just seems a little odd, and well, wrong?'

'Welcome to the Holmes family, John. 'Odd' and 'wrong' are what we do. It's probably the family motto, if I ever took an interest to translate the Latin.'

'Anyway, we digress. Enough about Mycrofts wet dreams. Maybe I should send him a new photo though. The other has probably worn out. Although come to think of it, I won't bother. He's got plenty of high quality CCTV he can gif up into suitable material, if he hasn't already.' 

Now, John. What are we going to do about this plan?'

............

The two men talked for far longer than the allotted hour. Mycroft had to fend off phone calls from the prison governor, a senior Met official, and the guards whose duty hours were over some time ago, and who wanted to know they would get overtime (and at time-and-a-half or the union will be on it).

About halfway through, and with the two struggling to see how John could cope with a baby at 221B, there was a call from Mycroft.

'Sherlock, I can see you are going to find this a difficult decision, but John perhaps more so. Can I offer an additional carrot to make this easier?

Anthea will be storing more eggs than should be required for this pregnancy.'

Sherlock nodded down the phone. 'So we could create a sibling later?'

'Yes, possibly..... I don't know how long they can store eggs, I know they can do it but maybe not forever, it might need to be fairly soon? But Anthea's actual thought was that it might enable John to have a child, a half sibling to your baby? Later on. She says if she needs to give more eggs for that, she will, if you can't keep them so long; and I don't think you two should try to care for two babies at once, not with your....challenges. Also, our surrogate might be available for Number Two if we wait, though I do have other options if not.'

'I will talk to John. Thank you, Mycroft.'

...................

John was very quiet when Sherlock told him of Anthea's offer. But Sherlock could see that the idea of having his very own child in the future helped to overcome some of the misgivings about looking after any child right now. 

At last, he sat back and looked at Sherlock. 

'I dont think we have much option, do we? I don't know if I will cope. That's a risk we're going to have to take. 

But I actually think that having a child would be good for you, Sherlock. Someone of your own, to love. And I know you love me. But we come with sharp edges and dangers to each other, and the obsession is without limit. And a baby will make you have to rein that in. Not love me less, but share that love with the baby, and moderate some of your behaviour for the sake of the baby. 

And the fact it's your baby will, I think, I hope, make all the difference in the world to my ability to cope, and to love it. I hope.

Besides, on the practical side, Mycroft is, I imagine, going to procure some support?' 

'He is. 221C is being converted into a flat for a nanny.'

How can he do that? You only rent 221B?'

'Not any more. The family trust have bought the building, partly because Mrs Hudson was finding it so hard to afford to keep it going. She has a life tenancy and all the money from the sale now, literally millions. That's why she's always on holiday now. But they bought it to provide a permanent home for me. And now for us. And soon, they hope, for this baby. Should everything go well, of course.'

John swallowed. 

'Do you want me back, then? At 221B? Can you trust me? I don't know if I can trust myself?' 

'We will be going back to 221B together, John. We have a nursery to make, and frankly you've seen my idea of interior decoration. I don't think eyeballs and skulls will quite cut it.'

'So that's it, then. You; well, this woman we've never met and you, and Anthea, are planning to have a baby. And it will be living with us at Baker Street?'

'Yes, exactly that, John.'

'Well, it's still never boring then, is it? Life with you?' 

...................

And that was how John Watson told Sherlock Holmes that he gave his blessing to Sherlock fathering a baby. It was typical John. No show. No dramatics. A bit of humour. And a lot of underlying pain.

John tried to sound cheerful but he was still in truth, deeply disturbed by what he had done to Sherlock and very worried about living in the same house as him. He had already decided that they couldn't sleep together for a while. Sex, yes. But then sleep separately. Too risky otherwise. It wasn't forever, but just for now. And he just hated that fact. 

He looked back to Sherlock as he was led out of the room by his guards. 

'Thank Anthea for me, about the baby thing. She didn't have to do any of it, but this part, about me being allowed to also use her eggs, is above and beyond. I'm not a Holmes and have just committed GBH, and I dont even think she liked me much before that because I'm rude to her darling Mycroft, so she's being amazing, trusting her DNA to me.' 

'She knows you couldn't help what you did, John. And she knows it may be the key to allowing you to cope. Which means I cope. Which means Mycrofts mind is set at rest. Which is solely what drives Anthea.

But I will tell her, John.'

With that, John was bustled away and the door closed. 

Sherlock picked up his mobile, and called Mycroft to let him know that the plan was on. Project Holmes could begin. Mycroft sounded smug but thanked Sherlock. 

Then he lay back and placed his hand over his eyes. He couldn't believe what he had just done.


	10. Home

It took approximately a month for Mycroft Holmes to arrange that all criminal charges against remand prisoner John Hamish Watson (current status: depressed; current address: HMP Pentonville); to be dropped under the wonderfully vague catch-all justification of 'Public Interest'. Sherlock grinned wryly when he read the paperwork, back in Wellington room at Eaton Square, his wounds healing. He'd always known that Mycroft regarded his own interests as being synonymous with those of the entire country and general public, as defined of course by Mycroft Holmes. Here was the final proof. 

They went to collect John on a cold spring day, the black limousine looking very out of place near the front entrance to the prison. 

A small door within the giant gothic gates opened slowly and a pale limping figure appeared with a black bin liner, presumably containing what few clothes he had. It blinked at the bright pale sunlight, having grown unused to seeing much natural light.

Sherlock emerged from the car. He hadn't been allowed to see John,or speak to him, since John was spirited back to the prison the month before. If anything, his lover looked older, greyer and thinner than even then. The only evidence of John he had seen in the interim was his signature on the paperwork to allow him to be registered as a co-parent of any child born to Project Holmes.

But as the two men locked gazes, they knew nothing, absolutely fucking nothing, had changed. They walked towards one another, and then hugged with a ferocity that felt like it would never end. 

After over five minutes, possibly nearer ten, of them standing motionless on the forecourt, Mycroft Holmes emerged from the car and placed a hand gently on Sherlock's back. 

'Brother, it's time for you two to go home now.'

Sherlock lifted his head, and Mycroft saw there were tears there. He took his large handkerchief from his suit pocket, and wiped them away softly. 'Oh Bee', he murmured. 'Let this be the last time we do this?'

The journey to Baker Street was characterised by little conversation, and it was a huge relief to all, when they finally pulled up outside. 

Sherlock waited for John to get out. He said farewell to Mycroft and then they walked up to the door.

Suddenly John stopped.m

'Just give me a minute, ok?'

'Of course. Are you all right?'

'Yeah, well, I will be : it's just the last time I was here I was covered in your blood and being read my rights?' 

After gathering himself for a few moments, John gathered himself into a military posture, and gave a small nod to indicate he was now ready to go inside.

.................

Nothing much seemed different in the hallway and in the stairwell, although it was a little dusty due to Mrs Hudson's absence. It was only when they ascended the seventeen stairs, and Sherlock opened the door to 221B, that the changes become evident.

The living room still looked the same in terms of furniture, wallpaper and decor. But everything had been cleaned, deep cleaned, to within an inch of its life. In the kitchen the surfaces shone. Sherlocks precious body parts might still have been in their freezer, but who knew, since that was missing? The kitchen was entirely and defiantly kitchen now. 

There were several contraptions on the work top. John picked them up. They were mandolins of various kinds, for slicing and especially for dicing food into small perfect cubes. Cubes of a type, that a man who couldn't eat anything bigger than cubes, might be able to eat. They were expensive looking Japanese ones, and there were also sushi rolling kits, and some other bizarre gadgets John had yet to put a name to. A set of Japanese knives too, the sharpest available......

John put them down again, and sagged a little against the worktop. Mycroft might be a cruel and manipulative arse, but things like this just showed his deep love for Sherlock in the purest, deepest way possible. And the knives. John was moved by those. They showed Mycroft was repaying their decision on the baby by trusting John with Sherlock. Though John had no illusions: if he injured Sherlock again, Mycroft would have him killed.

John wasn't comfortable with Mycroft's weakness for Sherlock, even if Sherlock was, but he had to be fair. Mycroft, after all, had had a quarter of a century and countless opportunities to take advantage of Sherlock, and in all that time, he hadn't so much as laid a finger on him.

John decided that was good enough for him. And he smiled at the mandolins and silently thanked Mycroft.

He went to find Sherlock, and together they went into Sherlock's bedroom.  
Then stopped. The large room had now been subdivided, with a new wall cutting off about a third of it. Thankfully there were two external windows so the new room and the original one still had one. A connecting door in the new wall, gave access to the new room. Sherlock, closely followed by John, walked across the main bedroom and opened the door to the small room beyond. 

His mouth opened in an 'O' shape. The room had been kitted out as a small but beautiful nursery. Two cots stood, one each side of the room, each with its own toys, playmat, changing table and wardrobe. The wallpaper was a tiny yellow and white stripe, but John could see looking closely that at random place on each white line was what looked from a distance like a small flower, but close up turned out to be tiny bumble bees.

John struggled for long moments to escape thoughts of the bedroom he had decorated and made ready for his own baby. 'Guess I don't need to get the overalls out then?', said John. 'Probably best, I think I need a cup of tea. I'll probably find a Tommy Tippee cup in the cup rack, won't I?' And he turned and left Sherlock there. He didn't find a tip cup, those were in a cupboard, but he did find a bottle steriliser where his under-sink top up beer stash had been. He leaned his head against the fridge door and shook with silent anguish of what he had been subjected to over Rebecca. Then he heard Sherlocks booming baritone and quickly cleared his throat and stood to attention, once more.

.............

After exploring the changes downstairs, and drinking their cups of tea inexcusably slowly, the two men were both delaying the moment when they ran out of excuses to go upstairs. Sherlock said he needed to de-fuzz the Belstaff. John had never known that be a Thing, but let Sherlock take out the sticky roller and start grooming his beloved coat.

John said he really needed to sort through the pile of unopened post. They'd brought it upstairs with them and it was heaped up on the desk. Then John was upset, because the pile included some correspondence from Sherlock's extensive fan club, who had read about John's arrest and his being charged with GBH against Sherlock. 

Some of the fans had in reality, been quite jealous already at their relationship; the press headlines now had turned some of that jealousy into pure hatred. 

There were letters, spitting venom and threats. Letters offering to do to John's face what he had done to Sherlock's. There were packages, too, which were worse, containing razor blades, lilies (now very dead) with a mock up of a funeral service card for John. And there was one parcel, thankfully carefully opened, which contained nothing except a large quantity of dog shit.

Johns hands were shaking as he opened each item, the next worse than the last. Then he felt Sherlock come up behind him and his long beautiful arms wrap around his sides and gently remove John's trembling hands from the stinking pile of hatred. He kissed the side of his head. Johns prison cut hair (hate it like that, he hates it too) was too short to bury a nose in, so Sherlock nuzzled instead, 

'Go and sit down. I'll deal with this. The press never publicise the charges being dropped, like they do the initial arrest and charge. We can deal with that, at least.'

He sat John down with a glass of whisky with very little water, took the vile collection out to the bins at the back of the house, and rang Mycroft. 

The next day, there were prominent splashes in the papers about the fact that John Watson had been released, and all the charges dropped. It didn't satisfy some of the fans, and some unpleasantness continued, but it did help, and there were no more parcels. 

..................

 

While John drank his whisky, and tried to quell the panic in his guts and the tremor in his hand, Sherlock told him that he should stay there in the living room, and he, Sherlock, would go upstairs alone. 

'I don't remember much about - the incident - so it will be much less traumatic for me to do it. I can see if it needs.....if anything needs....cleaning up...'

Sherlock took the stairs up to the attic with trepidation. He needn't have worried. Of course Mycroft had cleaned them.

The place was transformed. No desert. Not a grain of sand. No blood: the floorboards had been sanded: - it had clearly taken more than scrubbing to remove it all.

No bondage den. Everything had gone. The lot. 

In its place, this space, too, had been divided into two rooms, with a small landing at the top of the stairs. Sherlock went into the right-hand room first. 

It was a bedroom. A child's bedroom. With bunks that would convert to two real beds, as the child, or children, aged. With toys, and colourful rugs and murals and mobiles. An alphabet frieze by Jan Pienkowski ran around the wall. This, then, was to be where the baby or babies moved on to, when they outgrew the nursery downstairs?

On the bottom bunk, looking very out of place amongst the new and shiny and perfect toys, sat scruffy, timeworn, badly stuffed, patched up Bee. His childhood toy, only recently his again, after being left behind that terrible day when the truth came out and William Holmes was no more, and Sherlock Holmes came into being.

Sherlock stared at Bee for the longest time. 

Then he took a deep breath, sat down on the bunk, and hugged Bee to his chest, so tightly he thought he might not breathe anymore. He thought he would hold onto Bee himself, and buy a new Bee for the child. The child in him still needed this original Bee too much, and children would most likely not want the tired and damaged old thing. 

Eventually he got up and, swinging Bee in his hand, walked slowly back out into the corridor, and opened the second door. 

Wow. A lab. A fully equipped, kitted out proper lab. With a fume cupboard, dissection table, fridges and freezer (so that's where it went). The door had sophisticated locks and also movement sensors and alarms. All the cupboards were eye level and they locked too. Wouldn't want children playing in here, he thought; though he knew he had played in labs as a child. But his parents weren't under scrutiny the way he was, from Mycroft, the Met, the public, John. He stood at the workbench, looking out of the window at the view of the rooftops and roof gardens. He thought he might be able to work here....

He went back downstairs, and touched John on the shoulder. Rubbed a circle on the back of his neck, relieving some of the tension.

'Come and look. I think you will like this.' 

John came up the stairs still trembling slightly; and the sight of the bedroom upstairs after the so recent shock of the one downstairs too, did make him think for a moment of Rebecca, which caused him to stagger a little, but the sight of the bunk beds made him think more of their own future children, his and Sherlocks, growing up here. His eyes filled. He wept into Sherlock's (still) bony chest. Great heaving racking sobs. Those long arms once again surrounded him with warmth and grace and love. Eventually, they were sitting on the bottom bunk, side by side, hand in hand, lost in thought. They stayed like that for hours and hours, lunchtime came and went, and the early spring light faded while they sat there, and it was getting dark when they left and walked back downstairs at last.

............

Mycroft turned up unexpectedly later that night, so Sherlock and John were able to thank him in person for the transformation of the property. When he learned about the postal fiasco, Mycroft was furious, as apparently that should not have happened; he had requested that all post be diverted to his staff to deal with, having anticipated some 'unpleasantries', as he delicately put it. Heads were going to roll, it seemed.

He was gracious in accepting their thanks for the internal alterations to the flat, and recommended they take a look at 221C when they had the time, as it was now almost finished. The whole place had been tanked, so there would be no more damp, and there were French windows with steps up into the garden now. Two bedrooms, a modern shower room and a fantastic kitchen and living room. Lucky nanny. 

The reason Mrs Hudson wasn't here, according to Mycroft, was that the work had been rather noisy and dusty in the early stages, so she was off on a "Bulb Fields of Holland" coach tour with Mrs Turner. The Married Ones had gone too; as Liam had admitted, when he heard about the tour, to a secret obsession with parrot hybrids.....Upon hearing this, Jack had looked at his husband with a face that said 'I thought I knew this man: now I find I really don't know him at all'. But he agreed to go along, allegedly as a favour to his man, but in fact more in the hope of finding some decent dope in Amsterdam, preferably on a par with Mrs Hudson's soothers, if he was lucky. Something that made tulips appear before his eyes....

............. 

Despite the difficulty of his past, and especially recent, relationship with John, and the fact he would find it very hard to forgive him for what he had done, however unconsciously, to his brother, Mycroft was conciliatory and polite to him throughout. 

He had come primarily for two reasons, he announced. 

Firstly, to inform them that their first psychological counselling sessions were the following day. That the sessions would be with the best counsellors in their field. In Sherlock's case, child sex abuse and self harm in sexual practices; and in John's case, post traumatic stress disorder from military conflict? The sessions would be confidential. 

Sherlock and John exchanged glances. And said nothing. They weren't looking forward to the sessions. But after what had happened, they were prepared to go with it, though neither knew what if anything they would be able to talk about, when it came to it.

...................

The second point, of Mycroft sitting twirling his umbrella and running his fingers along shelves to check his cleaners had been thorough; was quite out of the blue, to offer Sherlock and John a wholly unexpected employment opportunity. 

'It seems to me', Mycroft said thoughtfully, 'that part of all this obsession in your relationship has come about through sheer boredom. 

Not boredom with each other; whilst I frankly fail to see what attracts each of you to each other, I don't deny the closeness of your bond. Rather, I think it is boredom with the external world. After your miraculous resurrection, Sherlock, the Met haven't exactly showered you with proper cases, just a pile of dust-gathering cold files. Not exactly stretching the brain cells, for you, my dear brother?

And you, Doctor Watson? No working in the medical field? Trailing around after a bored detective? It's no wonder the two of you had to resort to copulating in almost full view of half the Metropolitan's finest, to get your adrenalin kicks, and then come home and truss each other up like an oven ready chicken. 

By the way, Lestrade is 'very deeply pissed off', his words, not mine, naturally, with your behaviour at crime scenes. You've pushed him too far, you two. So, it's a good job I can offer you a diversion to keep you a little more entertained, and keep Lestrade's junior officers a little.....less entertained. So they can get on with their jobs, and Greg can cool down a bit, and hopefully forgive you, in time. But that will take time, and since the Met are not likely to soon relent on their distaste for dealing with you, Sherlock and John, especially as they also don't take kindly to open and shut GBH cases awash with evidence being dropped; I would like you to take some time, to consider taking on......other opportunities. 

'Oh God', said Sherlock. 'This is it, isn't it. Again? This isn't supposed to happen like this, Mycroft. You know the form. This is supposed to be the quiet tap on the shoulder from your Oxford or Cambridge tutor; or the bland letter talking about "Other opportunities to serve your country in the civil service, some of which are not normally advertised." Isn't it, Mycroft? Isn't that how it was for you, dear brother? Anyway, isn't it a young mans game? Or young woman's, of course?'

'Indeed it is, little brother. However, (smiles insincerely) in our - country's time of need - (smile) - the barrel may sometimes need to be delved into a little deeper, shall we say, for some of the older vintage? You, dear brother, will hopefully not represent the actual scraping of the bottom of the barrel in question. It is fully understood you are hardly the biblical first fruits....

..............

John, who had sat initially looking mystified, was now beginning to think he might be catching on to what was going on here, despite the weird wine metaphors.

'You want us to be spies?'. His mouth dropped open. He didn't look very spy like. More like a guppy. Poor John.

'I wouldn't put it quite like that, John.' Mycroft smiled.' "Spy" is a very old fashioned term. Evoking men in Homburg hats and smoking at Checkpoint Charlie and Karla and Smiley. Things are very different now. Much more forensic and technical; some chemistry involved too, sometimes, which should please Sherlock. And more ad hoc, than full time spook. 

But I like to think it would provide you two with some amusement and diversion, to distract you from your current amusements and perversions.'

'Mycroft, I don't regard the things John and I do as in any way...'

'I know you don't, dearest Brother. Which is why you require distraction from them, so that you leave them alone voluntarily.' 

'I don't have too much choice, since you have taken all my stuff. Which I paid for...'

'....with Trust money, Sherlock, yes. And I'm sure some of our older Trustees will have endless entertainment trying to work out what some of it is actually for, once the relevant department has sanitised it rather more thoroughly than with one of the disgusting towels you kept up there, which microbially speaking, probably has an active half life of around three million years.....'

Mycroft was in full majestic flow now.

'...in fact, we probably won't need any more samples from you at all, Sherlock, even if the original offering runs out. We can probably just press down hard enough on the padded parts of these "items" and we'll get enough semen flowing out to make a whole rugby team.' Mycroft was clearly very angry about the level and range of kit Sherlock had chosen to indulge in.

John was getting angry now.

'Enough. Both of you. And especially you, Mycroft. You are out of order. Sherlock doesn't deserve that ridicule from you. Not now. In fact, not ever. I know you're angry with him but don't......go too far. Just because he does it too sometimes with his actions, don't you do it. You do it with words but it can be the same thing, in its effects. Please, don't say anything more on that topic. 

Let's move on, shall we, because there's something bothering me. Well, a lot bothering me really, but something you can help me with, I hope?

Why would you want us to go into that dangerous a line of work now, Mycroft, when we might be taking on a baby in less than a year? Isn't it unfair on the child? We might get killed?'

'My brother nearly got killed when you two were doing very little work, John, quite recently. If I could remind you of that inconvenient truth?'

John's fists balled at his side and he tried to regulate his breathing. Don't do anything, he told himself. You cannot hit people when they taunt you, if what they taunt you with, is the truth.

Mycroft didn't seem to notice the internal discussion about killing him, and continued unabashed.

'But something needs to give you two the danger thrill you seek. I am quite prepared to limit the offer to Sherlock, who certainly cannot exist without living on the edge. But from my experience of you, John, I think you are at least as in need of it as him. Perhaps more. I will not be able to haul you out of prison again, John. Nor will I, if you ever lay a finger on my brother in anger again, sleeping or not. But I am sure we understand one another on that score?

With regards to the child, of course my offer presents some risk. However, our parents, and myself are ready to step in should calamity strike you both. 

It's important also to remember John, that this will be a Holmes child. By definition, they will not be conventional. A subsequent sibling sired by your good self may be more.....Normal... Perhaps.. But we will see. 

As yet, of course, there is no child although I am pleased to tell you that preparations are going well. Anthea is doing well on the fertility drugs, no major issues to date. It may soon be possible to harvest the eggs and fertilise them. But I shall keep you updated.

I shall leave you with some background reading regarding the sort of things you might be involved in, should you choose to. You are quite at liberty to turn this offer down. However if you do, it is unlikely to be revisited.'

................

 

With the social niceties and social horridness alike dispensed with, and his messages communicated, Mycroft, who had been away from his desk far too much for his liking over the past few weeks, made as if to leave. 

Just before he exited, he looked at John thoughtfully, and said, 'The attic bedroom has a fold down adult sized bed on the far wall. A proper one. Use it, if you think you will be a danger to my brother. Please.' 

And with that, Mycroft left.

He didn't know that John had already decided that he wasn't going to sleep with Sherlock for the foreseeable future. Neither did Sherlock. John wasn't looking forward to telling him but did so now. 

Sherlock was devastated, but unable to argue the logic, nor make John do anything that he didn't feel was safe for them. They held each other and, kissing and whispering, vowed to protect one another, whatever the cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the frieze that Sherlock found round the attic bedroom walls  
> http://shop.scificollectorshop.co.uk/Childrens-ABC-Frieze-by-Jan-Pienkowski


	11. Baker Street and the Night is Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the best kind: Smut ahoy! Tis a short chapter, but by Jove, tis a smutty one :-) Bah hah!

That evening, after the customary takeaway (something floating in broth and a dumpling affair was all Sherlock noticed eating), and for the first time in weeks, they sat together on their sofa, in their home (two fingers to the all powerful Trust, this was their home); able to be with each other, and to touch. Although Sherlock's wrists were still bandaged, all the other stitches were now out. But he was conscious that it would be hard for John to see all of his numerous healing wounds. The extent mean there was no way of avoiding it, and no way to delay it. It was just something they would have to get through. 

Normally John took the lead in their physical relationship, but his current frame of mind meant he was afraid to touch Sherlock with more than a hug or a chaste kiss, in case he lost control and attacked him. It wouldn't happen of course, unless in his sleep. But in John's mind, it had happened, therefore it could again, and who was to say 'only in his sleep'. How could he be sure? 

..................

So it was Sherlock who took John's beer glass gently from him, and placed it back on the coffee table. Sherlock who slowly unbuttoned John's shirt, trying not to wince at his pale and uncharacteristically thin frame. Sherlock who kissed John all over his face and neck and torso, delicate tongue flicking at his nipples until they were damp and hard, and then Sherlock again who unbuckled John's belt and undid his trousers and brought him out and expertly stroked John until he was speechless. 

But John didn't want it to end like this. He needed more. He needed to know, had to know, if Sherlock really still could want him, unbelievably; when, well, when he had done the terrible thing that he had done to him? So John stopped Sherlock with a small shake of the head, and took his large hand in his own small one, and led Sherlock to the now cosier and slightly darker bedroom with its single window.

Sherlock was certainly aroused, his small stab wounds having now healed and clearly not interfered with the power of the male erection. As John laid him down gently on their bed, Sherlock quickly removed his own trousers and pants and then his shirt and then he was there, deliberately making himself naked and helpless, showing John his scars and that he trusted him, trusted him, would trust him with his life, would never stop trusting him. Sherlock's eyes never left John, their unspoken message firing out. 'It's fine, I trust you, I want you, I need you, I love you.'

John removed his own underpants and, kneeling on the bed, stroked and laid kisses all over the sore, healing torso and buried his head into the flesh and muttered unintelligible words all over Sherlock's body. All over the scars. He cried over them, wiping tears that made the deeper ones sting, which only increased Sherlock's state of excitement.

Sherlock was enjoying all this veneration but he wanted more. He rolled over and pulled open the drawer of the bedside table. He grabbed the lube and threw it over to John, who looked at him. Then looked askance at Sherlock. 

No condoms. He didn't throw condoms with the lube? They had always used condoms. Even al fresco. Always. Even though they'd been regularly tested for the last - well, over six months now. 

John looked at Sherlock. Awkward now, this.

'You want to - bare? I mean, I know it would be safe now, but are you sure?'

Sherlock looked at him almost shyly. 

'I've been waiting for this, to earn this with you, for six months, John. There is no one else John, there never will be, and we're both clean. 

Please, John. We've gone through so much. 

I want it now, want to feel you, all of you. I want to feel you fill me. I want to feel it inside and to feel as though part of you is become part of me. I want your DNA and mine together. We can't make this baby together but we can have this. Please, John. Please, Sir?'

John felt his cock twitch. It might be Sherlocks military kink for the most part, but he wasn't unmoved. Or maybe his cock was as moved by Sherlock's words as he was?

'Very well, Private Holmes. You've been a loyal and diligent recruit, and it's been a bloody difficult posting these last few months. You are entitled to a just reward.' 

Internally, he was boiling with excitement at the prospect. His mouth actually watered. He'd only ever had sex without a condom with a woman. Sex with Sherlock had been incredible by comparison and now to do this....

With that thought, John lay down and covered Sherlocks body with his own weight, then rolling to the side taking Sherlock with him. The kisses were deeper and the hard pressure of their mutual arousal was crashing both of them into those kisses becoming more frantic, and their hands more searching and finding. John lifted himself slightly so that their now hard and erect pricks began to rub and grind together. The long weeks of abstinence meant that it took little time of doing this for them both to be close to exploding in orgasm.

'No', Sherlock gasped. 

'I want it, I must come with you inside me'.And he gripped the base of his cock to try to regain some control. John did the same, breathing hard; then when he thought he had some semblance of autonomy back, he reached for the lube and coated his fingers. 

Leaning forward he found Sherlock lying back, his head propped on the pillows. John put another pillow under Sherlock's hips. Sherlock spread his knees out and upwards, granting John full access to him. To that beautiful and now even more damaged body.

John thought it was time for another first. Because of Sherlock's oral issues because of the evils perpetrated against him as a child, John wasn't prepared for Sherlock to go down on him; John hadn't performed oral sex on Sherlock either, for fear of Sherlock feeling obliged to return the favour. This time, John felt the time was right to risk it. To make Sherlock feel so good in this new way.

He moved so that he was in front of Sherlock and lowered his face. His tongue flicked out and touched the just the head of Sherlock's straining cock, and then licked hard at the slit, shiny with pre-come. Sherlock almost shot off the bed, groaning and clenching and unclenching his fists. John continued regardless, licking up and down the shaft, and then suddenly taking Sherlocks whole cock into his mouth, as deep as he could without gagging, sucking and licking and sucking again and then using his lube soaked fingers on Sherlock's balls (which it seemed he really, really liked), and then getting more lube and running his fingers back to his entrance, and circling and rubbing and circling and then one finger just in, and then more deeply and all the time sucking and kissing and licking his cock, and then a second finger was there and this time he was scissoring: and Sherlock's thrusting into his mouth became frantic and then he added a third finger, hooking and hitting the prostate full square and as he did so Sherlock gripped his hair and screamed and his cock was practically down John's throat, and he couldn't breathe or do anything but try to swallow and breathe through his nose as Sherlock shouted and ranted and then he just came and came and came. And there was too much of it, and John coughed a lot and swallowed some but some went down his chin, and he coughed a bit more, and Sherlock looked down at him as if he were some kind of fucking god. 

And then John told him he'd been a very very good lad and now John was going to fuck him and Sherlock was going to feel it all this time, for the first time. And Sherlock looked at him as if he were Zeus and John couldn't bear to wait any more and hooked Sherlock's leg over John's good shoulder and lubed up his weeping, mottled prick, and pressed forward into Sherlock; and the feeling of suede flesh, hard yet silky, so big and so boiling hot, entering into him, made Sherlock feel trembly all over, and John was further inside now, the spear of molten burning flesh thrusting forward into the tight, private, forbidden place, and John was overwhelmed with the feeling and could wait no longer and, seeing his lover writhe and keen and moan, he pulled back and, his gaze meeting with Sherlocks, rammed into him and began a relentless campaign of thrusting, pulling Sherlock towards him. The key moment was when instead of thrusting forward and backwards, John stilled and then started to move in a wide circular moment, stretching Sherlock like he'd never been stretched before. Sherlock was now, unbelievably, hard again, and began to pant and clutch and moan unearthly animalistic noises at John as he pushed at these new boundaries with increasing power and force. 

Feeling that he was close, and Sherlock too now, John ceased the rotation and once again, retracted some way. He pulled Sherlocks weary torso upwards towards him, and for the first time ever, he reached down and pulled Sherlock's other leg, over his bad shoulder. It wasn't for long. He knew that. The sensation was unbelievable. So much newness in one go. Christ. He hesitated and then rammed his penis home, home into Sherlock, so deep and so hard and so hot, both of them grunting, and then once, twice more and then the next final beastly thrust took them both over the edge and Sherlock came first and he clamped Johns cock so hard inside him that John came with a scream, which was a first for him, being generally more of a shouter, and then mixing with the semen all over Sherlock's stomach there were floods of tears as John's emotions and relief at being forgiven overtook him as he pumped the contents of himself, his soul, his salty, hot, bitter come, deep inside Sherlock and the waves of orgasm stripped him of any last sensation or semblance of reality. 

For long moments they lay still, completely spent, and didn't move. Then Sherlock looked down and said in an awestruck tone, 'Can you see it? Your come, inside me? And John moved Sherlock's legs back apart and could see a dribble of semen tracking down from Sherlock's still twitching hole, and John, until recently 'Not Gay' John Watson, lover of women on three continents, leant forward, and licked up from the bottom of the trail, collecting the come on his tongue, and then he was at Sherlock's entrance, holding Sherlocks trembling knees apart and he was using his tongue and pushing, pushing in, pushing the escaping semen back up into Sherlock's anus and sticking his tongue in like a plug. Maybe they should get one, he thought. A plug. Then we could walk around, and no one would know he was full of me, and then later, much later, I could fuck him, my beautiful Phoenix, and he would be smooth and slippery, just from my come. And I could fill him, full, oh so full, again and again. He shook from the thought.

And Sherlock lay there, exhausted and scarred and smiling at him. Trembling uncontrollably from the new sensation and the waves of the sensation still rolling over him. Still looking at John like he was a God. 

And John reluctantly at length left the remaining come to do its own thing, and fetched a damp cloth to wipe down the splayed out Sherlock, who was clearly capable of no movement whatsoever for the time being, and why the hell should he be? thought John. 

Then John snuggled up to him, and kissed him all over, and they agreed that bare was fucking amazing, that John giving Sherlock a blow job didn't mean he wanted one from Sherlock, and that next time, John would wear his uniform and fuck Sherlock without removing any of it, just unzipping his flies and bending him over the sofa back with Sherlock aiming to come all over Mycroft's job offer. And that Sherlock was an excellent cadet soldier and that John was very very pleased with his boy, which made Sherlock sigh with bliss and tuck his head into John's side and curl up like a cat, and relax.

Then, they slept. Which wasn't allowed. And not planned. But it happened. John, waking several hours later, stroked Sherlocks damp curls and kissed his cheek, hearing a mumble of "get the milk, there's no milk, why is there no milk" which made him smile such a smile of love and fondness, and he then gently got up and, taking several rugs and some cushions, settled down to sleep on the sofa for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter is
> 
> the Beatles  
> Long and Winding Road
> 
> Tbh this is pretty much a bit of a theme song for their whole relationship in my eyes esp in this fic series because they go through so much.


	12. Therapy, and a new job for the boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: this chapter does contain some descriptions of historic child sex abuse and therefore please take note if this is likely to be a trigger event.

The next day, Sherlock and John, who would much prefer to spend the entire day in bed with the pot of honey Sherlock had been experimenting with that morning; realised that they had their first therapy sessions that day, and the mood of joy and sexiness instantly evaporated completely. 

They spoke little on the way to their appointments. Both were in a large impersonal and grand building on Pall Mall. 'Very Mycroftian', murmured Sherlock, as they sat on chrome and leather chairs in the foyer. 

Sherlock's therapist turned up first. A woman of about perhaps fifty, but looked and dressed younger, in a stylish way. Divorced, several degrees and numerous diplomas. She didn't look as if she would take much of his shit. Sherlock thought he might have heard of her? Vaguely. 

Doctor Tamara Stephens. That was it. Something to do with active war zones and women and child rape victims. Some sort of award? Brave woman then. Not sure why she should bother with his single sordid dirty past? Still, she'll soon get bored; he didn't really have any intention of opening up. He sniffed haughtily.

Mr Holmes. So pleased to meet you. Please, do come this way. Would you like a coffee or tea? They are both drinkable.'

Sherlock shot John one last heartfelt glance and mock mouthing of 'rescue me', and then disappeared around the corner.

No sooner had they disappeared, than a large bearded man appeared. He said his name was Mark Leonard, and he was to be John's therapist. He was in his forties, quietly spoken, with a north of England accent, and he was clearly ex military. Possibly Special Forces? Maybe SBS rather than SAS.

John liked him. He just didn't know if he wanted to talk to him? About the PTSD, but more than that, about the horrific thing he'd done. He knew that this man wouldn't go to the police telling them the charges shouldn't have been dropped or anything; that wasn't what John was worried about. He just couldn't talk about what he had done to the man he loved more than life itself.

But he also wasn't sure he could risk carrying on without sharing the burden.

.................

Sherlock needn't have worried too much about this initial session, as other than agreeing to use first names, which Sherlock conceded, although she noted the roll of the eyes, they didn't stray into anything personal.

Instead she concentrated on the planned schedule of two or three sessions a week, initially for twelve weeks. She also talked about different techniques of allowing people to open up. 

She did say that she had been asked to assist by Mycroft Holmes, and that he had not shared with her anything about what they would be talking about, other than to say that she gathered it should concentrate on a number of main areas

o Sherlocks childhood, adolescence and young adulthood in relation to sex and drugs  
o Sherlocks adulthood in relation to sex and drugs  
o Family relationships  
o Non familial relationships eg partner, colleagues, friends, teachers

She noted mentally the almost imperceptible wince when she said the word teacher and also on her first point. Clearly, some of what she needed to know, she could find out without Sherlock speaking. However that wasn't going to get them much further forward (Mycroft could give her those facts) unless Sherlock could be persuaded to speak. 

After they exchanged a few more false pleasantries, they rose to leave. Just as he went to go out of the door, following Sherlock, he turned to her and asked

'Would it be acceptable if I brought something with me next time?'

'Of course.' Whatever helps. One thing, is there anything you would like me to bring?

Sherlock thought for a moment and then looked away.

'The dolls. The ones they use with kids. The ones.... Could..'

'I know the ones.Consider it done. You have a good day, I'll see you on Wednesday. Same time.'

Sherlock didn't know what had prompted him to say that, about the dolls. Just that with John, writing not speaking worked, but he wasn't sure he could even write down stuff with this stranger). But he thought maybe he could just point and use the toys to show her. 

.............

Tamara sat back in her chair once Sherlock had gone. She was reflecting on the man she had just had in her room. She'd heard of Holmes, of course, read about him in the papers lots of times. As with most well known figures, the reality was rather different to the image. 

None of the background papers or newspaper clippings had any hints about the abuse he'd clearly suffered. She'd checked back and there had been nothing about it in the press at the time either. She wondered what had happened to his abuser: she couldn't check that out as she didn't even have a name, but she imagined Mycroft Holmes to be unlikely to let him (assuming it was a him) get away with it. 

She did have some details about his drug taking history, medical history (a thick file), and basic family information. Again when reading the family information, she thought there was some missing information. Forms were typed in those days and between Mycroft and William Holmes names (interesting, that name change, something to be looked at, though she guessed when that might have happened), there was a blank line. No reason for it. No content on it, apparently. But this was a photocopy. Had something been tipp-exed out, either recently, or more likely some time ago? Or was it just a spacer line?

From initial impressions she saw a man who was a child in many more ways than an average adult. Spoilt, privileged, highly intelligent, but emotionally trapped in some respects. 

She thought he would be an interesting case.

............

John's session had got a bit further than Sherlock's because he was more used to talking to a therapist and was comfortable with it, providing it was covering old, well trodden ground. It also helped talking to someone who understood. He was right about the SBS, the guy had seen and done a lot. But was also a thinker. His nickname was Plato. He too had been injured and medically discharged, knee in his case. Trained as a shrink and here he was.

John outlined his family background, Army career, medical career and career as assistant and blogger to a lunatic detective in cursory, bland terms. 

'Interesting' thought Mark/Plato. Keen to give me the headlines in the hope I'll skim over the stories. Afraid that's not how this works, John.'

He turned to John and asked about his discharge from the Army. John took a deep breath, and, surprising himself, began to describe that last terrible patrol. Perhaps that had been overtaken as the 'thing you can't speak of, by his more recent nightmarish experience?

..............

When they got back to Baker Street after the sessions, having not really spoken on the way back, too full of their own thoughts; Sherlock and John found a smallish parcel in the front hall. They took it upstairs and into the flat, and after checking it wasn't a parcel bomb intended for John, John opened it. Inside was a small set of gadgets and a note.

Sherlock read out the note. 

"Dear Sherlock. 

I tasked some of our more technically minded colleagues to come up with some sort of sensor to assist Doctor Watson in refraining from any more horrific and grisly attempts on your life whilst sleeping.

This enclosed item is adapted from a sensor used to detect heavy snoring which can, as you know, cause the sufferer to stop breathing.

In this case the adapted sensor will detect restless movement and /or agitated verbal sounds. A vibrating buzzer will alert Doctor Watson and wake him. One buzzer on his wrist, and one under the pillow. 

For obvious reasons, dear Brother, it would be wise to wait until you have finished all your conjugal activities each evening before attaching the device. Unless of course, it becomes an integral part of them? However I would advise against this, since the warning will not be effective if you become habituated to it. On no account would I recommend attaching any part of this device to your charming genitalia, please Sherlock.

The aim of the device is to allow you to share the same....night time bodily space, without John being subject to such fear of the violent nightmares.

It would be wise for John to try it sleeping alone for a while, until he has gone through a number of these nightmares and is confident that we have got the sensation level right to wake him without further increasing his sense of panic.

If we are unable to get this right, it may be necessary to reactivate internal surveillance at 221B - in all rooms - however I understand this would not be a popular decision given your blossomed relationship. Let us hope this is effective.

With kindest regards,  
Your brother,  
Mycroft"

John looked at Sherlock. 

'This must have taken them weeks to develop. He's been working on this virtually since my arrest, I reckon. You know, Sherlock, that brother of yours, he's a real number, a really strange one.'

'That', said Sherlock, twizzling the magic box in his hand, 'is not the first time that's been said to me....'. And smiled at John.

Both of them hoped fervently this would work. Cameras in 221B were not an option given their habits....

................

They talked about Mycrofts job offer that evening. The papers were spread out and examined, though they weren't exactly exhaustive. They simply, in summary suggested an ad hoc, open ended arrangement to call Sherlock and John in on operations, together or separately; discussed fee rates and included a copy of the Offical Secrets Act, which, John learned, Sherlock had always refused to sign before despite his security clearance being way higher than Joe Public due to his proximity to Mycroft Holmes.

'There are two issues here', Sherlock growled. One, the OSA. Signing it might limit my freedom to operate. Two, I am not doing cases separately from you. They get both or neither. 

John nodded. 

'Agree on that second one. Although I suspect even on those cases where we are together it will sometimes be you in the field and me as handler? So maybe not physically together. If I had to take a guess that was? But I think you will have to sign the OSA or this is a non starter; this is official now, not like our Scotland Yard stuff. 

Maybe we should sign it and try it and see how it goes?'

Sherlock sat for a while, then paced the room. Then sat again. Then paced.

'He's right. We do need something. I'll sign. Hand me the pen.'

It's in your jacket pocket. Which you are wearing, Sherlock. 

Yes but I'm reading? 

John grouched his way over and pulled open the suit jacket and pulled out the pen. 

'There you are, you lazy toad.' 

The papers were signed by them both and the ones to go back to Mycroft put safely back in the envelope. Sherlock was standing up about to text Mycroft to tell him that they had agreed to the deal, and his minions could collect the papers, when John came up behind him and reaching around him, stilled his hand on the phone. 

'Aren't you forgetting something, Sherlock?' 

'What? I need to text Mycroft? Can't it wait?' 

'Oh, no Sherlock, I really don't think this can, do you?' 

John pressed forward against Sherlock so he was left in no doubt exactly what couldn't wait, and reminded Sherlock of their resolution regarding a chair, Mycroft's papers and a certain consulting detective being bent in two. 

Sherlock had never dropped an argument, his phone, or his pants, in his life.....

...........

That night, John slept on the sofa with the new gadget hooked up, but couldn't test it out, as he slept like a baby. Which normally he'd be grateful for. 

............

John's next therapy appointment wasn't for a few days but Sherlocks, due to Tamara's existing commitments, was the next day.

He walked in slowly, carrying a plastic bag. 

Tamara also had a bag. 

She opened hers first, after the social chit chat was complete. 

She tipped it onto the table. There were three dolls. Two adults, one of each sex. 

Sherlock stared at them for a while. He said nothing. Tamara said nothing.

Sherlock picked the first doll up. It was of an adult woman. He shook his head and returned the doll to Tamara. She nodded and put the doll back into the bag. 

Sherlock picked up the child doll. 

It was a small stuffed rag doll of a child, one with floppy moveable arms and legs and head. And a mouth which had an indent like a real mouth. A boy child. You could tell, because the toy had male genitalia. And when Sherlock turned it over, it had shaped buttocks and another indent where the anus would be. 

He nodded, and gripped this one with his left hand, but the back of his other hand smacked across his mouth and he bit on it, hard. Keeping control. 

After a while, Tamara handed him the last doll. It was of an adult male. Again, it was anatomically correct. Sherlock now held both dolls. He put them both down, biting his lip. 

Tamara waited for a bit, and then pulled out of her bag a small abacus.

When this happened, Sherlock, can you use the abacus to tell me how old you were then? 

Sherlock looked at her with misery and guilt in his eyes. He slowly pushed the beads across the abacus. Tamara hoped for more beads, but when he reached eleven, he stopped, and looked up momentarily before casting his eyes back down.

'Thankyou, Sherlock. For telling me that.'

She didn't say it out loud, the number. Just wrote it down. Of course she could have got it from Mycroft. But that wasn't achieving anything. This was.

She moved the counter beads quickly back to home. 

'Will you tell me how long the abuse went on for?' 

Six beads were slowly pushed across. 

'Ok. Was that six days, Sherlock?'

A shake of the head.

'Six weeks?'

A nod. 

'Ok, thankyou. You're doing brilliantly. That's really helpful.'

They didn't get much further that session with the props, the dolls left discarded on the table and Sherlock not seeming to be mentally in the room with her. Tamara decided to leave the dolls until next time. Instead, she asked Sherlock about his bag. 

'Is there something in there you want to show me?'

A nod. 

'Can I see it? I'd like to, if you are able to share it with me.'

A nod. Followed by rustling, and Sherlock, despite violently shaking hands, produced two creased old photographs from the bag. 

One was of an pre teen Sherlock, skinny and gangly, grinning in the sunshine and holding a test tube of something bubbling and smoking, with a pair of tongs, wearing a T shirt and shorts and some flip flops. He looked very happy. This was clearly 'before', and looking at the boy's appearance, probably shortly before.

The other photo was one that Mr or Mrs Holmes must have taken, virtually in the first mathematics tutor session, before 'It' started. In it, Sherlock was sat at a study desk, again in T shirt and shorts, and holding up to the camera a page of mathematic equations. He was smiling broadly, and pointing to a gold star at the end of the work. Standing behind him, with a hand firmly gripped on Sherlock's shoulder, and looking down at him intently, was Jonathon Lang. 

The picture was stained really badly, (which was odd as the contemporaneous one with the chemistry stuff wasn't at all stained or damaged), and was brown in most parts so it was hard to see all the details. 

'Is that him, Sherlock? The man who did things to you? When you were eleven?'

A nod. Head dropped.

Tamara looked more closely at the photo.  
The brown marks were blood. She was pretty sure; you didn't work in war zones with rape victims to not know blood in all its ages and forms. 

'Sherlock, this blood on the photo. Is this yours? 

Nod.

Was this from an assault?'

Shake of head. Then nod. Not sure, then. Sort of. Ok so maybe not at the time. Maybe just after. 

'Is it something you did to the photo?' 

Nod.

'Was it afterwards? Did you try to stop the bleeding?'

A furious nod. 

'But you couldn't. You didn't have anything to hand, right? Just this?'

More furious nodding. Tears now rolling uncontrollably down the face. Looking away.

'And you kept it. We'll explore how that's helped or not, another day. Okay. You're doing so well. Really..Do you want me to hang onto this for a bit? Or would you like to keep them?'

A hand reached out, and Tamara went to give back the photos. But then it withdrew, and a nod came. 

'Okay, that's great. We won't cover any more ground today unless there's anything else you want to add?'

Shake of the head. Trembling hand held out. Tamara shakes Sherlock's hand. Holds it for a long while, before he drops it away. Then he takes it again. 

'You're welcome. I'm going to make a coffee. Reckon you should have one before you head off. There's custard creams, too.....' 

.....................

Johns therapy sessions were much less eventful, mainly because he had reached an impasse. Having covered his family background in brief, and his army career in summary, repeating the stuff he'd told Ella a whole heap of times before, he came to a grinding halt. 

Mark had got why John had PTSD from the descriptions of the operations, and it did explain the nightmares and that was all straight. They talked at length about it. 

But he knew there must be more to it. He'd heard about Sherlock's suicide, and two years of being dead. And then his miraculous reappearance. 

He asked John to tell him about that time. How he felt, how it affected his life, his relationships. What happened afterwards. 

He nearly fell off his chair when he heard the details. John spoke slowly and steadily. The only thing John missed off was Magnusson's murder. That he couldn't ever safely speak of, or Sherlock would be at risk. Technically, it had been murder of an unarmed man in front of numerous witnesses. 

He didn't care about himself, though, and after much soul searching decided he had had little choice but to describe the latest episode. He explained away his freedom by saying the courts had accepted he was sleeping and unaware when he attacked Sherlock.

He cried bitterly throughout the description of the attack and the aftermath. He explained they were reunited and that he was trying technical solutions to help prevent a recurrence. 

Then he just sat for the rest of the session staring at the desk.  
.................

Unlike Tamara, who was having to tease out every detail from Sherlock, Mark almost had the opposite challenge. So much material and where to start with this one.

..................

It was several sessions later that Tamara returned to the dolls. In the interim sessions she'd gone much easier on Sherlock, just establishing that his abuser was his maths tutor, that his family hadn't known and that his abuser wasn't charged, but died in an accident on holiday three years later. She wondered if it was actually an accident.

But now, they sat, with the toys, and two glasses of water, and Tamara pressed the dolls of the man and the boy into Sherlocks hands. 

Can you show me what happened first, Sherlock, what he made you do? 

Sherlock sighed heavily, and looked around the room, almost as if this was one of his Sherlock Holmes dramatic reveals of the murderer and everyone was going to clap and John would make him smile at people, then he and John would go home and eat Thai and John would watch Ice Road Truckers and tell Sherlock that Lisa was a hot lady trucker just to make him jealous (which it did).

But there was no admiring audience. Not even anyone to call him freak or tell him to piss off, or even to throw himself off a building. 

Just him, and this woman, who seemed to know everything about this subject, and had seen things, he knew from his research, that made his ordeal pale in comparison. 

Yet he didn't feel her belittle his experience or his pain. He wondered if he should have done all this years ago, decades ago? Maybe it would have helped? But the family wanted to move on, to forget it, to have a fresh start, and all the records were wiped. Like it never happened....

He didn't look at Tamara. He picked up the man doll, flipped his tiny stuffed penis up into the air. Then he discovered it must have some wire or something in it, because when he pushed it up, it stayed up. Clever. Creepy, but clever. 

He could hardly bear to look at the boy doll, especially as it was thin with a mop of dark hair. He quickly shoved the boy doll on its knees by bending the sausage legs...ahh, they also stayed bent....and put the man doll's penis into the mouth of the boy doll.

Tamara was writing her notes. But Sherlock, once started, didn't stop. He made the man doll push down on the boy dolls head. Made it move in a way that showed the boy doll was choking. And finally, made the boy doll fall back, lifeless on the floor. 

Tamara was keen to vocalise as little as possible of the detail, but just needed to check that. 

'You choked so long you passed out, yes?'

A nod. 

Sherlock didn't stop there. He picked up the dolls, regarded them for a moment and then acted out the worst of it. He got some tissue from his pocket and stuffed it in the boy doll's mouth. He got his shoelace from his shoe and tied the dolls hands behind his back. He used some more tissue to tie a gag around the dolls head. 

Then he silently acted out some very aggressive and completely without any suggestion of preparation, anal sex. That would explain the bleeding, Tamara thought. Sometimes the boy toy was on its back, sometimes on its front. But most often, Sherlock seemed to indicate, the toy was leant over something, face down. Tamara thought it must have been very hard to breathe, with the gagging and the position, and the hand tying must have made any altering of position to ease breathing very difficult.

Once Sherlock had finished the ghastly theatrics, he looked shattered. 

Tamara only asked him one more question this session. 

Is there more to tell me?

A nod.

This was going to be a long term thing, she thought; and as she saw him stumble out of her office, and into the taxi she'd arranged for him, she called to her assistant to forward book Sherlock's appointments for the rest of the year.


	13. Epilogue: News

It was about three weeks into the therapy, that Sherlock received a call, not a text, from Mycroft. Calls meant something serious. 

'Mummy's down here with Daddy. He's not too well, Sherlock? Could you come over to dinner tonight? Bring John, of course. I have some news too.'

They arrived at seven for pre-dinner drinks. Mr Holmes senior was in good form but pale and looked tired. John and Sherlock went up to Mycroft while the senior Holmes's were occupied bringing out nibbles and cocktails. John had taken one look at Sherlock's father, and now he murmured to Mycroft, 'Heart?'

'Yes. He needs a triple bypass. That's why they're down here. He's going in tomorrow.'

Sherlock looked across at his father and suddenly felt a racking pain of guilt and regret hit him in his guts. He staggered slightly and recovered. Hopefully no one noticed. 

They hadn't been close since, well since the thing that was always 'the thing' that ended the sentences that began with 'they hadn't been close since...' in Sherlock's life. 

Initially blaming his father for choosing the tutor, for not preventing it, for not stopping it, for not seeing it, for not knowing how to make it better, over the years the resentment had just withered into dry, dusty, unproductive distance and manners. 

He still found it hard when he remembered the breakfasts in those weeks, his eyes desperately flashing 'help me' to his parents, his body hurting all the time, and them not seeing it, not seeing any of it, and scolding him for the state of his room, his clothes, himself. Saying that he didn't smell very good, and wasn't he washing? That his school clothes were all ripped, had he been in a fight again? That he hadn't eaten his meal, wasn't he hungry, that he must eat, that he was losing too much weight, that no one would fall in love with him, and he wouldn't get a girl if he didn't look good, eat, wash, be tidy, be happy............

But now, faced with his father's frailty, he wanted to go over and put his arms around him and hug him. 

And he still couldn't.

And thought, at that moment, that now he never would. 

................

 

Sherlock excused himself from the room with a stammered mutter and, heading outside, lit a cigarette. He didn't smoke any more. That abstinence just meant the relief it gave him was all the greater. That was, once his shaking hands had managed to light the damn thing. He tried to get his breathing back to normal. Shallow, regular, frequent. That was the trick. 

John appeared by his side. 

'You ok there? You were there one minute and gone the next?' 

Then he saw the pain in Sherlock's face. 

'Are you ok? Do you need to go home now? We can, if you need to?'

'No, I'll be in in a minute. Just cover for me a little bit longer, John.'

'Right. Ok. Right.'

And John dutifully melted away. 

..................

When Sherlock went back inside he saw all eyes look to him. John looked worried.

Mycroft stepped forward and handed him a glass of champagne. 

So glad you are back, baby brother. I have some news for you. Some good news.

Today, our surrogate mother had the two week scan for the embryo the doctors have implanted. At the moment, and it's incredibly early days, it is holding. The size of a peanut, but there, and growing.

John looked at Sherlock, whose face was suddenly white. 

'I'll just take that', he said, grabbing the champagne glass as Sherlock crashed to the floor, fainted flat out.

'I think', said John, as Sherlock started to come round a couple of minutes later, 'I'll be drinking yours. Clearly those of us who are expectant shouldn't be touching the alcohol.' And he smiled down at Sherlock.

And with that John Watson downed his glass of champagne, leaned down to his prostrate lover and kissed him hard on the lips, only spoiling the romantic impression by then blowing large raspberries on his cheeks until it roused Sherlock enough to fight him off. 

'John. I don't know what happened. Something about a baby?'

'Yip. But incredibly early days, lots are lost at this stage and for the next few weeks. Class it as interesting but not cause for celebration until we get a good few weeks further in, yes?'

'Yes John. Whatever you say John. I believe you are my doctor, John.'

And Sherlock kissed him back. Mycroft, dismayed they were still on the floor, was looking at them like they were a squashed canapé. John looked up and laughed at his sour face. 

'Cheer up Mycroft', he said. 'You might be going to be an uncle!'

And Mycroft did smile......John just wasn't sure whether a Mycroft genuine happy smile was actually worse than his false smirks. 

Mr and Mrs Holmes looked beyond excited. They knew Mycroft had only said anything so early because of the operation. They knew that in their day you wouldn't know for weeks more that you were even pregnant at all. But they appreciated being given this news now...in case. 

Mr Holmes walked up to Sherlock, who had now scooped himself up off the floor. 

'Sherlock, my boy....thankyou. Thankyou'

...and he grabbed Sherlock and hugged his younger son for the first time in over twenty five years. 

Everyone held their breath. 

Then ......... Sherlock stiffened, then relaxed, and hugged him back. And then he hugged his mother. 

Sherlock did not hug Mycroft. 

Some things were...well.....let us say, restricted : to those hospital rooms and alleyways and crime scenes and all the places where, in extremis, where the loss of the other, usually Sherlock, was a shadow over them; and where, and only where, the two brothers could show their true feelings. 

Happy occasions did not hit the bar. Most certainly not. 

Mycroft turned away from the celebration and poured himself a Scotch.

John and Sherlock were kissing in the corridor now.

This family needed some good news, Mycroft thought. 

And God willing, at long last, perhaps this baby was it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a Part 4! 
> 
> Come pop in the visit me on Tumblr, I'm haffieliesel on there!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Civil War: Holmes vs Holmes [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7253251) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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